


Reign of Love

by JHWforever



Series: Reign Of Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Complete, F/M, M/M, Romance, Soul-Bonding, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, Weekly Updates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHWforever/pseuds/JHWforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has found his Soulmate in Mary Morstan. But is she really the one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re coming to my mother’s tomorrow for brunch, right?” John heard Mary ask as he continued to shuffle through the papers on his desk. He had his phone balancing between his shoulder and ear.

“Do I have a choice?” He replied with an exasperated sigh that he couldn’t keep away from his voice. He looked out of his office window at the cloudy and humid London sky. He took a couple of seconds to fan his face with the papers in his fingers before continuing with his work.

“No, not really. I accidently told mum you have late afternoon shift tomorrow,” she replied to which John groaned loudly. “But I’ll make sure we don’t have to stay longer.”

“Why do we have to visit them every month, anyway? It’s not like you are excited either.”

“I never said I enjoy the visits. But come on. Just this time. You can spare me some You-Never-Call-Me whinging from mum,” Mary mumbled.

“Yeah, alright. I’m just glad we don’t have to do this next month.”

“I can hardly wait for it, Doctor Watson," John heard Mary say with a little smile that he could hear through the phone.

“I know. Me too,” John replied mirroring her smile. He grabbed his distilled water from across the table and gulped a large quantity down. “Were you running?”

“No, I’m sitting at my desk for last two hours. Why?” she asked sounding a little puzzled.

“I’m feeling a little exhausted suddenly.”

“Are you alright?” she asked worriedly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Must be the humidity,” John replied while fanning himself with the newspaper on his desk. “Listen, M, I've got to dash. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Sure, take care.”

John ended the call with his fiancée. _Fiancée_. John still hadn’t got used to the term yet. Very few people were fortunate enough to meet their Soulmate. And even more fortunate were those who spent their entire lives with them. John was one of those more fortunate ones. He’d had met Mary through a common friend, Mike Stamford. After a few hours of flirting, dancing and departing by midnight with a sweet kiss had made sure that John was smitten instantly.  John couldn't neglect the instinct of meeting his Soulmate. He had nervously called Mary next day asking her out for another date. He didn't let his hopes up even if the instinct was strong. He didn't want to lose another date if the feeling was not returned. His mind was prepared for getting turned down but it never came down to it when Mary accepted the date rather enthusiastically.

The date- and many after that- had gone brilliantly well. And hardly after a month after meeting, they were engaged to be married. It all had happened really fast but neither of them cared as this felt the most natural thing to do. After all that was what Soulmates did.

A sharp knock and unlocking of his office door pulled John out of reverie. A nurse entered with abrupt certainty.

“Doctor Watson, there’s an emergency. Doctor Sawyer wants you to handle it,” the nurse said in huffing breaths.

“What happened?” John was instantly on his feet and rushing out of the door as the nurse followed him briefing him about the patient.

“Sherlock Holmes. 34 years old. Preliminary analysis says opioidal overdose. BP is lowered. HR, RR down too.”

John increased his pace ignoring how exhausted his body was really feeling now. Within a minute he was pushing open the door of an emergency ward.

And something changed.

John saw Sherlock Holmes lying loosely on the bed. Nurses were hovering over him, taking pulse and fighting to keep him alive. His lifeless limbs were dangling from the bed. If the man’s head wasn't swaying on pillow in pain, John would have thought he was already dead. The black tangle of hair on the man’s head was glued to his scalp with sweat. His body was sweating, his eyes unfocused.

And something about the man was absolutely undeniable.

“Doctor Watson?”

The nurse shook John by his arms and John realised he had been standing two steps inside the ward rooted to his position, and still was. There was heaviness in his chest and he couldn't say why. His throat was constricting making him unable to speak. His skin was breaking out in cold sweat. John could feel his heart sinking as he watched the man groaning almost inaudibly. He wanted to sit down. But he couldn’t move a limb. Neither could he take his eyes away from the man. He was unsure of what was happening.

But one thing he was absolutely sure about was he had to save this man. He had to.

John was taking the man’s, Sherlock Holmes’s, pulse in the next instant. His fingers trembled as they made contact with the pale skin- as if a current was sparking in his finger tips- but he didn't stop. He tried to say some soothing words but failed to make any sound. Every time the man whined in pain John’s insides churned. It felt almost as if he felt the pain too. He thought like he was going to be sick but he couldn't bring himself to leave the man’s side.

He pressed his palm lightly on the man's pale chest and there was the same electric feeling in his fingers which he tried to ignore. The body under his hand quivered more, as if John's touch was spurring on the pain. At this point John realised it was his own touch that was paining Sherlock Holmes, however twisted that sounded even in his mind. The man had his eyes squeezed shut and lips gripped between his teeth when John lightly touched his wrist again to test the theory. The patient once again flinched, fingernails pressing into his palms as he violently thrashed his head.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” John spoke in a small voice after breaking the contact with Sherlock. His fingers bore painful sting all the while where they held the wrist.   

“Epinephrine,” John signaled the nurse never looking away from Sherlock's tightly shut eyes. His heart rate picked up and steadied slightly as epinephrine entered the system. John's own heart was beating faster now, along with the man's making his work much harder. Another nurse began shoving oxygen tubes down Sherlock Holmes's throat as he directed.

“Any sign of seizures?” John inquired while grabbing one of the IVs and took Sherlock’s wrist in his hand again. He had to make sure the man didn't dehydrate. As soon as there was skin to skin contact, Sherlock’s body recoiled. John understood there was something about him that made Sherlock retrieving away from his touch. And John also sensed that he couldn't help but touch the man. It was physically hurting him. He gave himself a mental shake. This was not the time to feel... whatever it was.

“Mr. Holmes, I need you to open your eyes,” John whispered neglecting the man’s protests as he slowly injected an IV. It was important to see for any signs of seizures.

“I want you to open your eyes, Mr. Holmes. You’re going to be okay. Open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a doctor. We’re here to help you,” John whispered again.

Abruptly, Sherlock ceased struggling. The nurse who was struggling with the oxygen mask tried to ease it into place but the man batted her hand away. His eyes flew wide open and stared right into the doctor’s own. John’s fingers halted on the wrist. Pale hue of stormy eyes pierced John’s. He stared back, unable to look away and unable to continue doing so under the intense gaze. The man had the most fierce set of eyes John had ever seen before. He looked straight into John’s eyes leaving him feeling utterly stripped.

John wasn't sure how long they stared at each other. He cleared his throat and said, “D’you- Do you feel dizzy? Any nausea?”

“No, I haven’t had seizures. Not yet,” the man growled.

“O-okay,” _Is the man doctor_ , John wondered. “Can you look here please?” John produced his index finger between their faces, urging Sherlock to focus at it instead of his eyes.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John’s, looking as if it took him a lot of effort to do so. John noted pin-pointed pupils though he could tell the focus was improving.

“Your BP should be at normal rate in a minute,” John thought it was wise to tell the man what he was doing since it looked like he, too, was a doctor and could tell him if he had any allergic reaction to drugs he was going to use. “I’m giving you naloxone now.” Sherlock didn't reply and John interpreted it as go ahead.

John added the drug in IV drip. He took Sherlock’s wrist between his fingers once more, looking for a pulse. The man again winced at the touch. John noticed his patient’s pulse steady and slow. The monitor tracking his heartbeat matched this diagnosis; its once sporadic beeping had become a gentle rhythm.

“Are you in pain?” John asked calmly, in a small voice. The man nodded. “Your pulse is normal. I’m going to give you benzodiazepine that’ll help you sleep.”

John injected the drug alongside the first. Slowly the man’s eyes drooped close. John was unable to look away from the man. Something was definitely different and he couldn't pin point what.

“Doctor?” John almost jumped at the sound. “They want you on the second floor.”

Embarrassed, John nodded with a tiny bob to his head. Reluctantly retrieving his fingers away from the man’s wrist, he hurried out of the ward rather abruptly.

* * *

 

John approached the table where Sarah was eating her lunch alone. “Long day, was it?”

“Very. I could sleep right here on this steely cold table,” Sarah replied, indicating John to sit down. Hospital was in a frenzied rush since yesterday when a bus carrying forty something travelers had collided with one carrying another fifty-odd people.

“Tell me about it. Thought wouldn't get time to have lunch either,” John said in a tired voice, stretching and rubbing his injured left shoulder when he sat down.

“Hey, I’m sorry you had to take the overdose patient. I had to rush down to Chris's school. He got his leg fractured,” Sarah said, knitting her eyebrows together.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He fell off a swing.”

“Shouldn't you be home then?”

“His nanny is with him for now. He’ll be fine.” Sarah was digging in her pasta with half interest. “How’s the patient?”

“Yes, about that,” John hesitated for a moment. “I was wondering if you could take over from here?”

“Anything serious?”

“Oh no. It’s just… I don’t know but it seems like the man’s repelled by my touch or something,” John said in a small voice, now unsure of his observations.

“Repelled by you touch? Are you serious?” Sarah laughed as she playfully slapped John’s arm.

“Yeah, he wouldn't let me touch his wrist, yet he was fine when the nurse did it.”

“He was under influence, John. He wouldn't have been very attentive to his surroundings.”

“It didn’t seem like it,” John said. He remembered when Sherlock had told him he hadn't had any seizures. “He kept retrieving away from me for some reason. And I don’t even know the guy.”

“You’re reading too much into it, John. And I would take his case but I've got a four hour long surgery in an hour. Sorry,” Sarah replied.

“You’re right. I’m thinking too much of it,” John said finally. “Will Chris be okay? Mary and I can look after him for tonight, if you want. Mary’s very fond of him. He’ll be fine with her.” John offered. Mary and Chris had bonded exceptionally well over the barbeque party they had in the backyard a week ago. He was sure Mary would love to have Chris over for the night.

“He’s very fond of her, indeed. Wouldn't stop blabbering about her magic skills all night,” Sarah smiled at John. “Are you sure about watching him? He can be handful sometimes.”

“Yes, I’m sure. We don’t have anything planned for tonight,” John said mirroring her smile.

“Thank you so much, John,” She grasped his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s going to gain me points in favour from Mary,” John added with a wink. Sarah giggled.

“So how’s the wedding planning going?” Sarah asked conversationally.

“Very good. I’m doing a fantastic job of what’s asked of me.”

“And what’s asked of you?”

“Staying out of the planning and showing up on time,” John said in all seriousness before laughing along with Sarah.

* * *

 

John had visited all his patients by evening, leaving Sherlock as his last. He was still not sure if he could handle another meeting with the man, whether he was conscious or not. Doctors made challenging patients but something about this man was different. John couldn't pin point what.

At last he entered the private room of Sherlock Holmes when he had all his other patients checked and no other excuse left. The pale man was sitting on the bed looking at the ceiling with the utmost expression of concentration. His fingers sat under his chin in a praying position. John wondered if he should give him some privacy, but Sherlock’s pale eyes locked with his for a brief moment before returning to nowhere.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. You look better,” John said as he advanced into the room. He didn’t look up from diagnosis pad in his hand when Mr. Holmes turned to look at him but he could feel the gaze penetrating.

John lightly placed the pad on the bed. He knew he was acting stupid. He was a doctor for God’s sake. He shouldn't be awkward around his patients as if he were some smitten teenage girl; and he was _not_ smitten.

Steeling himself he looked up and gave a warm smile that he knew usually had a calming effect on patients, yet apparently not on Sherlock Holmes. He looked straight into John’s eyes leaving him feeling exposed. As if the man could see right at his soul and know every little secret and lies and private moments he left deep buried.

John cleared his throat and indicated to the patient’s wrist as he asked, “May I take your pulse?”

“There’s no need to take my pulse. Monitor to your right is indicating everything you need to know,” the man spoke in a low baritone. John wondered if his voice normally was so deep or the drugs were having that effect.

“Thank you, but I prefer to do it manually, if you don’t mind,” John replied keeping his voice distant.

“I do mind. The machine would be spot on,” the man spoke with disinterest.

“I’m sorry but do you have a problem with me?” John spoke in a clipped voice. He bit at insides of his cheeks to keep from shouting. The man was infuriating.

“I’ve sent my brother to assign me to another doctor. You are under no obligation to look after me. I will do fine until my doctor comes.”

John glared at the man for some time before stating, “That wasn't an answer to my question.”

There was a sharp knock on the door before it swung open allowing a tall, posh-dressed man inside.

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” he said and held out his hand to John. John took it. “Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you,” John said just because he had to follow niceties with patients and relatives to maintain reputation. The man smiled; it seemed so forged that John wondered why he even bothered. The man, Mycroft Holmes, turned to Sherlock.

“I’m afraid there are no doctors available at the moment, dear brother, due to the dreadful bus accident. Doctor Watson will take good care of you. Won’t you, doctor?”

“It’s not a one way road,” John replied, glancing at Sherlock.

“Move me to another hospital, Mycroft.” Sherlock spoke through his teeth.

“I don’t serve you, brother,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“Mycroft.” There was something in Sherlock’s voice that had Mycroft fidgeting on his feet before replying.

“No, Sherlock. I wasn't the one whose reckless and obtuse behaviour got you here.”

“Excuse me,” John said gritting his teeth together. “Is there something wrong here?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked where John stood and then rested on his finger which now adorned a soul-ring on it.

“You do understand what is going on here, don’t you, doctor? Or are you choosing to ignore it because you are engaged?” Sherlock spoke as he again fixed his eyes on John.

“What are you talking about? And what does my engagement have to do with any of this? How do you-”

“So you don’t know then.”

“I don’t know what?”

There was silence in the room for one long minute. Finally Mycroft Holmes spoke, “Doctor Watson, you don’t have to listen to my brother’s rambling ons. Do you wish to continue looking after him?”

“As I said earlier, it’s not a one way road. I do intend to have some participation on my patient’s behalf,” John replied.

“My brother can be a little... _difficult_ to work with. And in your case it is going to be more challenging than expected. But he will be co-operative from now on, won’t you, brother?” Sherlock snorted at that.

“Why is working with me more difficult than working with any other doctor?” John asked, trying to keep his frustration subdued.

“I’d leave it to you figure it out,” Mycroft Holmes said, flashing another brightly false smile. Before John could ask more, he continued, “Doctor Watson, let’s not make it difficult than it already is. I hope you’ll find a way through this. Goodbye. Take care, brother.”

And with that the posh man exited, leaving a very confused and angered doctor behind.

“You were an army doctor,” Sherlock said abruptly. Not a question, just a statement. John sighed and turned to his patient.

“And how do you know that?” He walked straight to the monitor and started taking readings while avoiding looking at Sherlock all along.

“You aren't checking my pulse _manually_ ,” he said not bothering to answer the question.

“Very good observation.”

“Do you not want me to be okay soon?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions.” John took readings and went to Sherlock's bed to refill his IV.

“Of course, I do. That's part of what I do.”

“So you're a doctor too, then?” And with a whisper John added, “No wonder you’re so difficult.”

The man laughed and something inside John jolted at the sound. “No, I'm not a doctor. My mind needs stimulation and when it doesn't get it, I become arduous to work with.”

“So you don't have anything to stimulate your mind right now?” _So you’ll shut up_ , John chose not to say.

“I do.”

Sherlock's altered tone made John look at him, only this time he held his gaze. There was something between them. Something which John couldn't understand and had never experienced before. But he knew what Sherlock meant, how he felt almost as if it was written on his face.

“I have these codes to solve.” Sherlock's voice broke train of John's thoughts. Sherlock wriggled some official looking papers in his hand but eyes remained fixed on John.

“Oh that- yes, of course,” John stammered. He felt stone cold guilt at where his thoughts had taken him. John quickly changed the subject by asking for a blood sample that the hospital already had.Sherlock stretched his arm in front of John. John hesitated but took it eventually.

As soon as there was skin-to-skin contact, electricity ran through John and he shivered involuntarily. Sherlock closed his eyes looking broken but fixed simultaneously. John couldn't bring him to look anywhere but the pale face in front of him. Smooth and pale like fine, bone white porcelain. He had a moment of crazy instinct to touch his face, the high cheekbones and perfectly shaped lips.  John shook his head. This was getting out of hand. He had to make it stop. Very quickly he found pulse all the while avoiding the gaze that burned on him. Inserting the needle he drew blood.

“Right. That should do it,” John said. He hooked the pad at the end of the bed and hurried away from the man’s immediate side. Finally he gathered some courage and looked at his patient. “Erm- everything's in check. You can call the nurse if you need anything, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” he replied. “My name's Sherlock.”

“Right. I'll see you tomorrow… Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and John bolted from the room.

* * *

 

John picked up Mary from her clinic before going to Sarah’s house. Sarah had informed the nanny already that John would be coming to collect Chris.

Chris was four years old. His hair was just like his mother’s but his eyes clearly came from Matt; Sarah's late husband. Matt had died three years ago. The only explanation of his tragic death was that his Soulmate must have died, wherever they were. John had always been very protective of Chris since then, knowing very well what it was like growing up without a father. Nevertheless, he was a very bright and chatty kid which John was very thankful for at the moment as he kept Mary busy on the way to John's house.

“-and then I-I-I flew so high in the air. I saw birds on the tree!” Chris exclaimed. He was buckled up on backseat with Mary on his side. The kid had insisted to sit with her.

“Oh did you? Did you say hi to the birds?” Mary asked. Her eyes were big and she looked genuinely interested in whatever story Chris was making up of his great fall from the swing that day.

“I did! I did! The little bird waved at me!”

“That’s cool, Chris. Would you take me to the park next time? I’d like to say hi to that little birdie too.”

“Of course! They’ll like you. I’ll tell ‘em, you-you are my favourite aunt. Uncle John, will you come with us?” Chris asked, jumping up and down in excitement in his seat. Mary grinned at John. She kept a hand on Chris’s injured leg to keep it less disturbed.

“Of course, Chris. I’d love to go to the park with you. But some time later, okay? You need to rest for some more days,” John replied. He looked at Chris from rearview mirror and saw his evident pout.

“No! I wanna go now!”

“Not now, buddy. We’ll go home and play videogames instead, alright?”

“But that little bird will fly away, uncle!”

John laughed. “No, it won’t. And if it does, we’ll find him again.”

“No! I wanna go,” Chris was on the verge of crying when Mary interrupted.

“Hey. I didn't tell you we have a surprise for you at home, Chris.”

“Surprise?” The boy’s eyes lit up.

“Yes. A very _very_ tasty surprise.”

“What what what!” Chris clapped and shrieked in excitement.

“Chocolate cookies! Just the way you like them. You’ll help me to make it, won’t you, Chris?” Mary asked with a gentle pout on her face.

“Alright. B-but you’ll take me to the park next time?”

“Pinkie promise.” She vowed solemnly. Mary’s little finger looped with Chris’s small finger. Sight of the two warmed John’s heart making him forget about his worries for now.

* * *

 

“Are you okay, honey? You seem a little distracted,” Mary asked. Her deft fingers combed through John’s ash blonde hair as they lay side by side on the bed. Chris was tucked in bed in the next room after planning how they would find the birdie again. Mary read him nighttime story while John sat in the living room flicking absently through channel, thinking about Sherlock and their weird encounter.

“Nothing. Hard day at work,” John said closing his eyes, relishing touch of Mary’s fingers on his scalp. Mary hummed and continued to massage his forehead lightly.

“Actually there is something,” John spoke after some time.

“Oh?” Mary rested her head on her palm, inching closer to look up at her fiancé.

“There’s this man, Sherlock Holmes. He came into hospital today with an OD. Sarah was busy with Chris so I went to check up on him,” John hesitated. “It seemed like he was very reluctant to let me touch him, but was okay with nurse doing it. Seemed a tad bit odd.”

“Do you know the guy?” asked Mary, eyebrows arching up.

“No, never heard of him. I've never even seen him at the hospital before,” John said and waited, not sure if he should continue. "Then there was his brother, Mycroft. It seemed like they knew something about me, something very private. It was... _spooky_.”

Mary laughed and rested her chin on John’s chest. She looked up at him. “What made you think that? That they knew something about you?”

“Sherlock knew I was an army doctor. And both of them looked very oddly at me.” John felt more puzzled explaining it.

“Maybe, that Sherlock guy has a crush on you?” Mary winked and moved to lie on top of him with their lips barely apart. John could feel her gentle breath running along his face. She continued to giggle.

“Mary, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too. You don’t know how sexy people find men in uniform,” she said, placing an open-mouthed kiss on John’s jaw.

“He knew I was getting married.”

“Even sexier.”

“Mary.”

“John.” John didn't reciprocate or lean into the kisses. Mary stopped.

“John, you are over thinking this. We meet all sorts of people everyday. Maybe the guy’s just playing with you. You are thinking too much and neglecting me a privilege to bring you to orgasm.”

John laughed. He tightened his arms around her.

“Chris’s next door.” John kissed her cheek with a moist sound.

“I’ll keep it low, Mister,” Mary said and kissed John’s cheek and making an even more filthy noise. John laughed and let his hands toy with his lover’s shirt.

“I love you, Mary.”

“I love you too, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this story in December'13 which was before S3 was aired. You might find Mary out of character but I hope it's not a total turn off.
> 
> Secondly this story is extensively beta'd by the amazing beta the universe could have arranged for me, [Thefacelesswriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/profile) . If you find any mistakes they're entirely mine.
> 
> Lastly, This story is complete and will be updated every week on Saturday. If you do- or don't- like this story please let me know in the comments. You can also contact me here on my Facebook page, [Hamish. John Hamish Watson, in case you're looking for baby names](https://www.facebook.com/SassyBabyJohn?ref=hl) . My admin name is John's Jumper. 
> 
> That's all. I'll be shutting up now.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a beautiful day, indeed. Sun was shining brightly, enough to make John squint his eyes a little, but not entirely unpleasant. He had always liked bright skies. It reminded him of Afghanistan. He didn't like humidity as it reminded him of the lonely times in a government issued apartment after being sent home. But that was one of the downsides of living in London he couldn't avoid. For now, light wind was blowing, indicating summer had yet not started and it was a pleasant, indeed. Well, minus the company.

"So John, how are the preparations going?" Susan asked.

"Ah, good. Mary's taking care of it all really well," John said with a tight smile.

Susan directed her attention to her daughter. "Oh and Mary dear, who's going to be your maid of honour?" She asked.

"I asked Harry- John’s sister- a week ago. She agreed," Mary said with an utter disinterest. John wasn't sure why she dragged him along every month if she too hated these meetings so much.

Susan’s face fell. “Oh- oh right. Of course,” She said, quickly recovering. “I thought you’d ask Jenny. You know, for old time's sake.”

"Mum, I haven't seen Jennifer in two years. She most likely won't even be at the wedding," Mary said, dropping fork on the plate with a little more force than necessary. "I am close to Harry."

"Oh, sure. Why would you listen to me now, anyway," Susan muttered. John saw Mary clenching her jaws as if to refrain from saying cutting remarks. The silence dragged mercilessly on until Susan turned to John and grasped his hand resting on the table, smiled brightly. "What about you, John? Who's going to be the best man?"

"Well, I haven't asked him yet, but I was thinking Mike," John said and turned to look at Mary with a smile.

"Who's _Mike_?" Susan asked and scrunched up her nose. She was doing a very poor job to hide her displeasure.

"He's the one who introduced us, Mary and I."

Susan's nostrils flared but she didn't say anything more. That was the thing with Susan. She had never liked John. In the beginning he had tried to have a normal conversation with her but she seemed to always remind him how Mary’s ex-boyfriends were doing far well that he was. It irritated John at first but now he chose to ignore.

The followed silence was physically painful. John pulled out his phone to check if he had been summoned to the hospital before his shift but the screen remained blank. Alex, Mary’s father, tried making a decent conversation about the ongoing football tournament. John, appreciating his efforts, nodded and agreed to whatever he said.

Later, John stood in the garden- very much glad having left him alone to his thoughts. Mary was helping her mother in kitchen. That was when Alex quietly joined him. John didn't mind; he had always liked Alex. He was a timid man and gave opinions only when asked, unlike Susan.  John had always found Susan and Alex an odd couple. He wondered how these two, so different in every quirk of their personalities, had managed to stay together. And they weren’t even Soulmates.

"You know, I was wondering whether it's time to give you the take-care-of-my-daughter-or-I'll-murder-you talk," he said after some time, smiling.

"Well, now's not a bad time." John laughed lightly and Alex did the same. John watched a tiny butterfly fluttering about. The butterfly was beautiful. All bright colours that seemed to glow brighter in the sunlight.

"Mary's a very sensitive girl, John. She’ll try till her last breath to hide it, will try to show she is indifferent,” Alex paused. “She doesn't like to be… vulnerable.”

“I’m aware,” John said quietly. They watched the butterfly smelling one flower before flying off near the fence. It never stayed in one place.

“I'm happy she's found someone who understands her," Alex spoke. He looked at John with a true smile on his lips.

"I'm the lucky one here, Alex. Meeting her was the best thing that could ever happen to me. She completes me." John said.

Alex nodded and patting him on shoulder he turned to leave him at the bottom of the garden, gazing onto the roses. The butterfly was flying over the fence in the bright sunlight.

In his teenage years, John was obsessed with the idea of having a Soulmate. He had mistaken his first girlfriend, Ellen, for his Soulmate only to realise otherwise. The break up had been nasty, landing him in dark months of depression. After that he never tried to search for his Soulmate, thinking if he were meant to be with them then eventually he would be. There were the tellers who helped search for one's Soulmate by the means of physic ability, but John never believed it.

In early years in uni, he decided to become an army doctor instead of choosing the sedentary life of a physician. His had mother cried and begged of him not to go, to think about his Soulmate who could be out there waiting for him. Choosing a career path like this meant he was endangering not only his life but his Soulmate's too. Once his heart would stop beating so would his Soulmate's. Soulmates were two pieces of one Soul. Both enter the life cycle together and exit together. Until these two Souls unite, life cycle continues.

John had long ago stopped leading his life around a Soulmate who he didn't know where was. He had made up his mind. He was in Afghanistan for three years. At the age of 36 he was invalidated and sent back to homeland with a psychosomatic limp –which reappeared every now and then- and an injured shoulder that made daily chores strenuous. Afghanistan left him undone. He never again felt like a civilian nor like a veteran- leaving a hole in him that never refilled.

Mary came into his life when he had given up on his Soulmate. It was the last thing he expected to happen while living in a dingy apartment for more than two years. But after he met her, his life made sense; for the first time after Afghanistan. She understood his moods and knew exactly when he needed to be alone. She held him tight against her when he had nightmares. Given the chance she tried to understand him, his fears. She made him feel wanted again, something that had never happened to him since the army. It wasn't a difficult decision to conclude she indeed was his Soulmate. They never needed the approval of a pastlife teller or anyone else.

A clattering noise from kitchen brought John back to reality. He rushed inside to find Mary and Susan arguing in hushed voices behind the half-closed door of the kitchen. John stood by the door. Neither of them noticed him.

“-I cannot just stand by to see my own daughter committing to a man who she _thinks_ is her Soulmate!” Susan hissed, fighting to keep her voice low. John wasn't surprised at those words. Susan had been insisting for them to see a teller but they had never agreed. Apparently she was quite sure John was not Mary’s Soulmate.

“John is my Soulmate and I am going to marry him, Mum. You’re going to have to deal with it,” Mary said between her teeth. John saw a steel pot lying on the floor by Susan’s feet, realising it was the one which had caused the noise.

“And how do you know that? Your birthdates don’t match, you keep refusing to see a teller-”

“Birthdates differ, mum. How many times do I have to tell you it depends on when the child was conceived?”

“If you’re so confident he’s your Soulmate then why do you not see a teller?”

“You know I don’t believe in such things.”

“I’m asking _how_ can you be so sure that some crippled ex-army doctor is your Soulmate?!” Mary stood flabbergasted on her feet, wide-eyed. John could feel his insides churning.

“And if he _is_ your Soulmate,” Susan continued finger-quoting at the ‘Soulmate’, “then why didn't he even bother to think about you –his _Soulmate-_ before risking his life like that on field? Wasn’t he jeopardising you too?”

“People join army all the time, Mum!”

“But not someone who hasn't met their Soulmate. Men in army are bonded, Mary, you know it. Nobody goes off risking their life like that, risking the life of their Soulmate.”

Silence followed. John saw Mary looking at her mother but not saying anything. Susan continued in a calmer tone, “Mary, I want you to think about it before committing to anybody. This is your life and you get to choose which way you want to lead it. That man out there didn't think twice before risking your future like that. What guarantee can you give me he won’t do it again?”

John was waiting for this to happen, for somebody to point at his army career; but having it heard he realised it did hurt. He turned on his feet, walking away from them.

“John!” He didn't stop when Mary called as she ran after him. John clenched his jaws. His leg was throbbing. He cursed and without halting limped towards his car.

“John, wait!” Mary grabbed his arm and spun him around as he started unlocking the door. John looked over her shoulder, avoiding her eyes.

“John, I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to hear any of that.”

“Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better,” John replied and turned away, but Mary’s tight grasp on his shoulder stopped him.

“You know I don’t feel any of that, don’t you?” Mary said holding his face in her hands and making him look at her. “Don’t be like this. I love you, John. And I’m not leaving you even if some stupid past-life teller says you aren’t my Soulmate. I don’t care what my mother thinks. I care about _you_ , John.”

She continued when John didn't speak. “This is not about her or anybody else. It’s about us. It’s about you and me being together for the rest of our lives. Forever or not, I don’t care. Do you understand?”

John met her eyes and nodded. “I understand. I just- I just want to be alone for some time,” he said. Mary withdrew her fingers from his face. She nodded, letting John turn away.

“Will I see you tonight?” Mary asked hesitantly when John started to get inside.

“I- yes. Yes, I’ll see you tonight.”

* * *

 

John arrived at the hospital early. He didn’t want to go back to the flat. Mary would be there, apologising and it was the last thing he wanted to hear. He wasn't ready to deal with the drama yet. He knew it wasn't Mary's fault but he needed to be alone. He had no friends he was particularly close with, except for Mike who would likely be on duty in hospital. So having nowhere to go he took to hiding in the hospital. He wondered if he was being cranky for something that shouldn’t matter. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

As he was about to enter his office, a nurse hustled through the crowd towards him.

“It’s your patient from room 734. He’s not allowing anybody to refill his IV, and said some really nasty things to Doctor Sawyer when she tried,” the nurse said, still breathing heavily after her run from room number 734, John assumed.

John sighed, rubbing his temples. He was not ready for another drama in this single morning. He motioned the nurse to lead and he followed.

As soon as they reached room 734, John heard yelling on the nurse’s part and grumbling on the patient’s. It didn't take a genius to deduce they weren't amicable greetings.

John pushed open the door and the yelling nurse fell silent mid way through a profanity rant.

“Doctor Watson-” she tried but John shook his head, stopping her.

“I’ll take from here, Ms. Fray. Thank you.” The nursed threw a death look to the lanky figure on bed and walked out along with the other nurse, leaving John alone with Sherlock Holmes.

John took a deep breath before he asked, “How do you feel today?” He was not quite looking at his patient. He walked straight to the monitor to check the readings. He was sure the man was looking at him closely.

“Bored,” Sherlock growled.

“Is that why you were terrorising the staff?” John asked as he picked up the diagnosis pad and copied down the readings; still not looking at Sherlock. Was he afraid of what he’d see? Or afraid of he’d feel the odd sensation he had felt the day before? John didn't care to consider it.

“You are not supposed to be here until late afternoon,” Sherlock said and after a moment’s silence he continued as if he’d found the solution to a grave problem. “Ah, I see.”

“What? What do you see?” Something in Sherlock's tone made John turn to take a better look at the man since he entered the room.

As soon as their eyes met, electricity ran through his blood, awakening every nerve, every vessel, every cell. They remained there staring at each other, not particularly looking for anything but understanding everything. John had an obscure urge to cross the distance between them and just touch him, make sure he’s okay. He was almost sure the other man felt the same. He couldn't pinpoint what was making him feel this. The feeling was stronger than he had felt yesterday. And it was a terrifying sensation.

“John.”

Silence broke as Sherlock spoke his name in earnest. It sounded like he was hurting, like he was in immense pain and only solution was within John. John stood rooted to his position, terrified to be in proximity of this man and fighting his instincts to hold him tight- torn between two.

“You know what’s happening, don’t you?” Sherlock spoke barely above whisper. He faltered at the end of sentence. John couldn't find his voice.

“I don’t want to feel this either. You are under no obligation to act on your feelings,” Sherlock murmured with an indicating glance at John’s bond ring.

“What- what are you talking about?” John spoke. His voice was thick and throat seemed to be constricting.

“You candidly believe your fiancé's your Soulmate.”

Not a question, just a plain factual statement.

World seized moving as the meaning dawned upon John. The only thing He could sense was Sherlock seating less than an arm’s distance away from him and the urge within him to cross the distance. The stormy gray eyes gaped at him as if they were seeing right into John’s soul, understanding him, _accepting him._ John involuntarily closed his eyes; he was seeing too much, realising too many things, comprehending too many emotions flooding through his very being.

“How...” John tried but failed to construct a coherent reply. Taking a few steady breaths in, he opened his eyes and looked down at the diagnosis pad. He started scribbling down readings mechanically. His heart was jumping. He couldn’t concentrate.

“I am with Mary. She is my Soulmate,” John spoke with a hint of finality but it sounded as if he were confirming more for his own sake.

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. “Ordinary people do find refuge in ignorance.”

John watched Sherlock slide down his bed until his head rested on pillow with such elegance that was not usually seen in patients. The man’s eyes shut close, leaving John to grasp what had just happened.

Sherlock thinks he is his Soulmate. Reluctance to let John touch him, weird encounter with his posh brother; everything attributed to the fact that Sherlock thinking John as his Soulmate. Pieces were falling into place making a picture John didn’t quite like. _Does the man feel the same rush through him when I am around,_ John wondered.

But that was absurd! John’s Soulmate was Mary. He didn’t need a past life teller to confirm his connection to her. He was sure of it, despite never feeling this rush, these strong emotions ever before with anyone else.

“I am not your Soulmate and neither are you mine,” John repeated with more firmness. Sherlock’s looked at him intently. “But if you are sure of it and if it’s making you uncomfortable, I will try to manage someone else to check on you.”

John received a rueful laugh. He tried not to wince.

“There’s no need, doctor. I’m not interested in inept ceremony of Soul-Uniting. Neither am I going to molest you.”

John drew in a shaky breath.

“I am _not_ your Soulmate so there’s no question of Soul-Uniting,” John spoke hooking the pad in his hand on bed. “I am going to change and refill your IV.”

“By all means,” Sherlock spoke and held out his wrist.

John tried his best not to touch Sherlock’s skin as he drew out the needle from his wrist. But it was impossible and when the skin came in contact with skin their eyes met. This time John was quick enough to tear his eyes away before his brain started making a connection that wasn't even there. His haste to break the contact gained an almost-pained laugh from Sherlock.

“When will I be discharged?” Sherlock asked as John studiously refilled his IV.

“Depends on how you respond to medications.”

“How many days?”

“One more day, at least.”

“What if I get bored?”

“Hospitals are not established to provide patients entertainment, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock. I think we have accomplished that already,” The man said. “You don’t need to sound professional to avoid further acquaintance. There won’t be any. I am not interested in this soul business.”

“Neither am I. Not with you at least.”

Sherlock didn't speak. Silence was painful.

“I’ll come back in two hours to check up on you,” John spoke, readying to leave. “Try not to scare away my staff.”

“And if I get bored?” Mr. Holmes asked with a serious concern that reminded John of a five year old. The thought almost brought a smile to his face.

“Haven’t you got those official secrets to decode?” John asked, indicating to the mess of papers on the nightstand.

“Solved. Elementary,” he said and waved his hand in dismissal.

“Well, I’m a doctor. Not a performer. I can’t help you with your boredom, sorry,” John spoke and allowed himself to smile just a little. Sherlock smiled back and something inside John clenched which he chose to ignore.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

John nodded and headed out.

* * *

 

“Hey, John!”

John turned to see Sarah seating with Mike Stamford. He waved and made his way to their table.

“What are you doing here so early?” Sarah asked.

“I was getting bored at home. Mary’s off with her parents,” John lied. “I heard Sherlock gave you hard time in the morning?”

Sarah’s face dropped. “That guy is _insane_ ,” she said through gritted teeth. “I could use a far worse word but he’s a patient so...”

John’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn't really like the sound of that.

“What did he do?” Mike asked.

“I was going about my job and he started saying these _things_ about me, about my _personal life_. He knew about my divorce and about the case of Chris’s custody!”

“How did he know all of that?” John asked.

“He stalked you or something?” Mike ventured.

“I don’t know but it was creepy,” she said. “Be careful around him, John. And what you told me yesterday about him, it’s not really a nice thing.”

Mike looked questioningly at John and he shrugged. He knew Mike sensed something wrong in the picture.

“Up for a pint tonight, John? And you, Sarah?” he asked looking at John giving him a We-Need-To-Talk kind of look.

“No, I can’t. Chris will be alone at home,” she said.

John thought about it for a moment. If there was anyone other than Mary that could help him, it was Mike. He nodded.

* * *

 

“What did you say to Doctor Sawyer?” John asked Sherlock while scribbling readings- which he had already written and didn’t to do it again- on the pad. He just didn't want to look at the man.

“Ah, so you talked to her. What did she call me? Freak? Psychopath?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to answer the question.

“Insane,” John replied plainly, “but that’s not the answer to my question.”

“You know what I said to her. I was only stating the facts. That she’s divorced, has a kid about 4-5 years old, and that she’s fighting for his custody.”

John looked at the man, eyebrows raised. “You stalked her?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued. “I didn't stalk her. I just observed and deduced.”

“You observed?”

“Yes. That’s what I do.”

“You observe people’s personal lives for a living? That’s... weird.”

He didn't need to look at the man to know he was rolling his eyes.

“I’m a consulting detective. I work with the Scotland Yard.”

“So you’re a policeman?” John asked. He pulled out a tablet from his pocket.

“No. Police consult me when they’re out of depth.”

“You serious?” John asked as he poured water in a glass.

“Is it hard to believe?” He cocked his eyebrow up.

“Never heard of police consulting an amateur.” He slid the glass along with the medicine. Sherlock eyed it questioningly. “It’s to keep vitamin level up in your body.”

Sherlock made a face and John tried not to snicker. He could still feel the tension in the room but it was bearable.

“Science of Deduction. Look it up on the internet. You’ll know exactly what I do,” Sherlock spoke after gulping down the tablet.

“I will,” John muttered, noting down the dosage on the pad. He took his time about it.

“You looked upset in the morning,” Sherlock said after a while. “Fought with your fiancée?”

John’s hand froze on the paper.

“How do you know?” John asked through tight throat.

“You came four hours before your shift was supposed to start. Your injured shoulder was tense. You were limping again. And you fidgeted with your bond ring more often, and this was before I told you about me being your Soulmate.”

John chose not to answer; he was neither conforming nor denying.

“Was I right?”

John looked up at him. He looked genuinely interested in knowing if he were right.

“That was... amazing if not a little creepy.” John said finally. Sherlock’s grin was spectacular.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they say then?”

“Piss off.”

John didn't hold back his laugh this time.

* * *

      

 _Received at 15:48_  
From: Mary Morstan  
I just wanted you to know that I’m cooking you dinner tonight.

 _Received at 15:49_  
From: Mary Morstan  
Pasta with red sauce. Or would you prefer white sauce?

 _Received at 16:17_  
From: Mary Morstan  
Will you be picking me up today?

 _Received at 16:54_  
From: Mary Morstan  
That’s a no then.

 _Received at 17:28_  
From: Mary Morstan  
John, I’m sorry. I have never thought about you that way. You know that.

 _Received at 18:54_  
From: Mary Morstan  
Don’t ignore me. Talk to me. Yell at me. Just don’t ignore me. Please.

 _Received at 20:37_  
From: Mary Morstan  
I’m keeping dinner in fridge. Eat it.

 _Received at 22:08_  
From: Mary Morstan  
You aren't at the hospital. Where are you?

 _Received at 22:54_  
From: Mary Morstan  
You are making me worry, John. Just tell me that you’re okay. Please.

* * *

“You alright, mate?” Mike asked as he took his sit before placing beer in front of John. John murmured a ‘thanks’.

“No, not really. There’s something...” He bit insides of his cheek. “How did you know Rachel was your Soulmate?”

Mike looked a bit alarmed at the question. Recovering, he said, “You just know, I guess. You can feel it.”

John nodded half listening, half understanding. John took a large gulp of alcohol in before looking at his friend.

“Everything alright with Mary?”

“Hm? Oh yeah. Everything’s fine. Just wondering, you know.”

John knew Mike could sense something off as he looked at him.

“The patient Sarah was talking about this afternoon...” John continued but hesitated. He knew telling Mike would be the wisest thing he could do under the circumstances. “He thinks I’m his Soulmate.”

“What makes him think that?”

“Our hearts beat together; I checked. He says he feels a connection. Something happening deep inside when I’m around,” John spoke in a small voice. Mike steadily looked at him without any trace of judgment.

“And do you?”

John didn't speak. Mike didn't force him to. Bartender refilled their glasses for John to empty it again. He already knew the answer.

“Yes, I do,” John whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are love. :3


	3. Chapter 3

John never returned to his flat that night. Mike, understanding as ever, let him sleep on his sofa when he said he didn't want to go home to Mary. John knew it wasn't Mary’s fault or anybody else’s but he needed to be alone to get his thoughts aligned. His head throbbed every time he thought about Soulmates, Mary, or Sherlock. At three in the morning he gave up on sleep and made his way to the kitchen for some coffee.

He checked his phone while sipping on black coffee. It was too strong and bitter for his usual taste but he didn't mind today. Mary had left him numerous calls along with texts which he had read before retiring to the sofa. He couldn't bring himself to reply to them even though he knew she might have driven herself crazy worrying all night. Mike had called her on his behalf, telling her that he was okay but wouldn't be coming home. John wasn't yet ready to face the reality. He no longer knew what was real and what not.

John couldn't deny the way he felt when he was in proximity with Sherlock. The insane rush in his body, the urge to be closer to him and to touch him, to make him feel better; it was all new. It was overwhelming and consuming. He had felt the way their hearts beat together. His pulse quickened when they touched or looked into each other’s eyes. His heart seemed to contract every time Sherlock groaned in pain. His fingers bore the sting where they had held the pale wrist. It wasn't normal. It was as if thousands of invisible strings were pulling them closer. It didn't matter how much they struggled and it didn't matter whatever was happening was morally correct or not. John couldn't rule out the feeling of guilt as though he were cheating on Mary.  Even when that was the case, he couldn't think of a way to tell her what was happening.

_‘_ _I’m not leaving you even if some stupid past-life teller says you aren't my Soulmate.’_

Mary’s voice rang in his ears. He pushed his half finished, now-cold coffee aside and buried his face in his palms. He had no doubt that she meant it. Even if he told her that they had been wrong all along and she wasn't his Soulmate, he was sure she would accept him. And God, it did everything to make him feel worse.

There wasn't any point telling her. Sherlock had made himself pretty clear that he wasn't interested in ‘ _Soul-Uniting business_ ’, as he put it. John wondered how many lives they had spent apart. Had they met each other in previous existences? If they had, then why didn't they bond? If they had bonded in previous life, they would have escaped the birth-death cycle. Wasn't it supposed to be the point of having a Soulmate? Once one meets their Soulmate, they bond with them, unite the two pieces of one Soul. And once the Soul unites, there wouldn't be any more births. It would have saved them both the trouble at least.

John groaned in frustration. He was never interested in finding out what he did in his previous lives. Now that his current life was falling apart, it made him curious as well as frustrated with their past.

He could now agree Sherlock was his Soulmate. The electrifying sensation they felt when they touched, their hearts beating together; everything pointed at that conclusion. He remembered how his blood pressure lowered too when Sherlock was overdosing himself. But it was never that simple. There was Mary who loved him immensely and there was Sherlock who John knew nothing about except that he was a junkie and detective. What kind of life he’d be leading if he chose him instead of Mary? Sherlock hadn't wanted John in his life, and John wanted not to want him.

“’Morning.”

John’s head snapped up to see Rachel, Mike’s Soulmate, entering the kitchen. Day was breaking outside and soft sun rays made their way into the kitchen. He wasn't sure how long he’d been sitting there. He smiled up at her.

Mike and Rachel were together for eight years. She was a source of energy in the Stamford household. While Mike was unsuspecting and gullible as a marshmallow, Rachel was stern when she needed to be. She was more outgoing while Mike preferred to have a day in when he’d get time off. They were different personalities. Yet they complemented each other like two halves of one masterpiece.

“Are you okay, love?” Rachel asked with sympathetic eyes and squeezed his hand that rested on the table. So now Rachel knew too. _Perfect_. He nodded with a tight smile. “Oh don’t worry. I’m not going to tell Mary what happened,” she said, sensing John’s hesitation.

“Thanks.” He nodded.

“Oh, come on, you. Cheer up,” she said, standing up and patting his shoulder. “Help me with the breakfast. It’ll take your mind off it for a while.” John sighed but stood up, pouring the cold coffee down the kitchen sink. He did really need a break from it all.

* * *

 

John took more time than necessary getting ready. Mike had left early for a morning shift, leaving Rachel and John alone. Rachel didn't ask John anything more about Mary or his plans of what he was going to do, allowing him to revel in peaceful quiet. When it was time for him to leave for the hospital she looked at him with pitiful eyes and hugged him, making him feel more self-conscious than he already was.

John chose to walk to the hospital. It wasn't far from Mike’s house but it wasn't close. He knew he would have to see Sherlock today, no matter how long a route he took to get to the hospital. He decided to deal with it. Like a soldier.

Straightening his posture, he entered the hospital. The walk had helped him clear his mind a bit. John was handed the list of patients by a nurse as soon as he reached his office. Looking through the list with a casual interest, John’s heart skipped a beat when a familiar name was missing from the paper.

“Why isn't Sherlock Holmes on the list?” he asked the nurse. The nurse poked her head around the door.

“He was discharged this morning and taken under private care,” the nurse supplied. John’s heart abruptly clenched. _Have I lost him already?_

“Why wasn't I informed of this? He is my patient.”

“Sorry, Doctor Watson, his brother said it was mandatory that they move him away.” John’s heart beat quickened. _Did Sherlock feel that too_ , he wondered.

Taking a deep breath, John asked: “Is he okay?”

“He seemed pretty okay to me. His readings were normal, only a little depression in the BP. Nothing serious.”

_I have lost him, haven’t I? All these lives, I searched for him and then I finally find him to lose again._

Sudden pangs of pain in his chest made John wheeze and in seconds breathing became unbearable. Before his knees could give away he dropped into the patient’s chair, waving his hand dismissively at the concerned nurse. They said once you met your Soulmate, you could feel their heart beating along with yours more prominently than before. John was sure this wasn't happening to him alone.

John’s eyes began to water. He took some steady breaths and waited for his heart to slow down, gulping down the water the nurse had brought for him. Some five minutes later, his heart decelerated to normal pace. Breathing still made his lungs ache. He opened his eyes to see Sarah hovering over him, startled and worried. He hadn't even noticed her arrival.

“Oh my God, John. What just happened?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m feeling dizzy,” John mumbled. His head was spinning as he tried to get up but his body swayed and dropped again into the chair. He drank more water until the hazy edges subsided allowing him to see clearly again.

“What’s going on, John?” Sarah asked. John opened his eyes but didn't meet her questioning gaze. He saw the nurse disappearing out of the door. “Mary called last night. She was asking for you. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

John exhaled forcefully and looked up. He asked quietly, “What did she say?”

“She was asking for you. Sounded worried as hell. Didn't say anything more. What’s going on?”

John didn't answer for a long moment. Sarah continued to look at him, prodding for more. He finally said, “I’m not feeling well. Can you cover for me today?”

If Sarah sensed something was wrong, she didn't say more. Instead she replied, “Of course. Take some days off. I’ll have Doctor Burke cover for you. Do you want me to arrange a cab to take you home?”

“No, that’s fine. Thanks. For everything,” he said. She nodded and helped him gather his things. She insisted on walking with him to the exit.

Bidding her goodbye, John walked to the corner where he flagged down an empty cab. As he was about to slip in, a tap on his shoulder startled him.

“Yes?” He asked the man who had acquired his attention, flawlessly dressed in suit. The man handed him and envelope which addressed to him in a unblemished cursive writing and walked to a black car, holding a door open for him. Puzzled, John tore open the envelope. In it was a note written on an expensive looking paper which simply read, _‘Get in the car, Doctor Watson.’_

The doctor hesitated but took a step in the car’s direction, his body going in a soldier mode in an instant. As he approached the passenger door, he saw Sherlock’s brother sitting inside.

Smiling a fake smile, Mycroft Holmes motioned to the seat next to him. “Please, do get in, Doctor Watson." John raised his eyebrows skeptically, yet curiosity took better of him and he entered. The chauffeur closed the door as soon as he sat next to the elder Holmes.

“How are you doing, Doctor Watson? I hope Sherlock’s little _adventure_ didn't cause you too much trouble?” Mycroft Holmes, dressed impeccably, said. If there was any doubt left in John about Sherlock being his Soulmate, he was sure this conversation was certainly going to clear things up.

“How do you-”

“How do I know about it? Well, for starters, I took Sherlock to my house once he was discharged from the hospital. And last time I checked he wasn't in a condition to carry on his plan to escape three bodyguards I had installed just outside the door. Still he managed to scarper. That shall explain your heart condition, though I know you must have figured it out already,” Mycroft spoke calmly though John could sense venom in his words. He wanted to ask if Sherlock was okay but didn't. Mycroft assessed him for a while as an awkward silence settled between them.

When Mycroft finally spoke his voice was firm. “I think it’s my duty to tell you that he’ll be going to Switzerland for a rehabilitation programme for an undetermined period of time.”

John stared at the man’s face for a long time. “When is he leaving?” He asked.

“In three weeks. You don’t have to worry about your wedding. He’ll be long gone before that. He won’t be exposed to any means of communication once he’s there, I’m assured.”

A humourless laugh escaped John’s lips. “Funny how I wasn't even thinking about my wedding.” _Did I actually say that out loud?_

Silence stretched between them as John continued looking at the bond ring Mary had given him when they had bonded. It was a simple gold ring with three diamonds signifying he’s bonded to his Soulmate. The ring felt heavy on his finger.

The doctor never looked up to meet Mycroft Holmes’s gaze, not really wanting to know what he might find there. Buildings and cars and trees ran past them as they moved through busy streets of London. He didn't bother asking where they were heading, not because he trusted the man- _God, no_ \- but because he didn't care anymore.

After some long, awkward minutes, the car pulled to a kerb. John looked outside the window at the unfamiliar part of the city, not sure why he was brought here.

“Two Hundred and Twenty One B, Baker Street,” Mycroft supplied. “You’ll find Sherlock upstairs.”

John swallowed the thickness in his throat. He looked at Mycroft and whispered a _‘Thank you_ ’ before slipping out of the car. He stood before the door of 221B, not sure if he should knock and enter. John saw the car disappearing around the corner but he didn't move. He was afraid of being an unwanted intrusion in Sherlock’s life. He had a fiancée who he had built a life with. Was he just going to toss it all away for someone who he didn't even know? Yet he couldn't bring himself to throw the chance away.

Finally, taking a deep breath, John knocked. There was shuffling behind the door, a lock unlocking before the door swung open to reveal an elderly woman. “Can I help you, dear?”

“Er- yeah, I think so. I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh! Come in, come in!” The smiling woman ushered him inside. John returned the smile awkwardly as he entered the house. The woman hurried past him and looking up the stairs she shouted. “Sherlock, there’s another client for you.”

“I’m not his-” John tried but the woman, not hearing it, started pressing the bell frantically but no ringing resulted.

She groaned at the bell. “He shot the bell again.” She complained to John. John’s eyebrows rose. A junkie, a detective and now a reckless shooter; who was this man?

“Come on, I’ll show you up.” She climbed up the stairs with John following close behind. The woman knocked before pushing open the door. John stood by the threshold as she entered.

“A client is here for you, dear,” she spoke as John started to peek in.

“Send in,” came a throaty reply from John’s right and he turned to see Sherlock Holmes stretched out on the sofa. The old lady mumbled something about brewing tea and went downstairs when he entered. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, palms clasped under his chin; the same position John had seen him in the hospital. The room around him looked like there had been a massive earthquake. Papers, official looking manila folders, books were strewn all around the room. A light layer of dust lay on every horizontal surface it could reach. A skull adorned the mantelpiece along with knives and petri dishes. A smiley face in yellow colour spay painted on hideous looking wallpaper stared down at John.

“If this is about petty jealousy issues or tedious inheritance disputes, please say no more. Leave the way you came,” Sherlock grumbled without caring to open his eyes.

“It’s about neither of them,” John said quietly. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open before his head jerked side ways to look at him. He slowly rose from the sofa with his eyes never left John’s, resulting into quickened pulse in both of them. He looked at John with such intensity that for a moment he thought he wasn't the only one who had been through a miserable time. He was dressed in pajamas and a T-shirt which John noticed was inside out. A blue silk robe hung from his one shoulder. His dark hair was ruffled. Some of the locks were falling on his forehead managing his skin look paler than it already was. He could see cotton gauze under his wrist where he had inserted the IV. He hadn't even bothered to pull it off.

“John,” Sherlock said. His voice was throaty. It made John’s inside clench. The man looked vulnerable. It took John a long moment to recover ability to speak.

“That’s me,” he replied lamely. He mentally kicked his brain for not coming up with something intelligent. Something in Sherlock’s eyes changed. Cold façade that he usually wore took its place again. In a fraction of second he became distant, beyond John’s reach.

“What brings you here at this time?” Sherlock spoke, jutting his chin out at John. John observed how he went from being susceptible to defensive in mere seconds. Sherlock’s question remained unanswered.

_What brings me here, really? Do I want him? Am I willing to spend rest of my life with him? Am I here to commit myself to him for entire life?_

“I don’t know why I’m here,” John spoke honestly.

“Well, tell me when you know,” Sherlock said and whisked past him. John turned, incredulous of the man’s behaviour, to see Sherlock typing on a laptop at lightning’s speed. He ignored him for good portion of a couple of minutes. John cleared his throat in order to gain some attention.

“You were discharged without my knowledge this morning,” he said, using his professional voice as well as he could.

Sherlock barely looked away from the screen when he answered. “I reckoned it was good for us to stay away from each other.”

John considered it for a long moment while he stood in the middle of the room. Outside ambulance blared, making silence inside more prominent. He knew Sherlock was right. But it was bloody hard to admit. His leg throbbed making him wince. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Only if you have to.”

John sat down without paying much attention to the snarky remark. There wasn't any sound except occasional whooshing noise of a car outside and Sherlock’s clever fingers tapping fiercely on the keyboard.

“Your brother brought me here,” John said.

“That figures.”

“He said you will be going to a rehab programme in Switzerland.” The fingers stopped typing for a moment before regaining their speed. John didn't miss it. “What happened to you in the morning?”

“If my brother brought you here then he must have told what had happened.”

“Are you trying to shut me out? It’s not going to work.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m not leaving unless we sort this out.”

“Oh, pity.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. The man groaned loudly and shut his laptop with a forceful click.

“There’s nothing to talk about. You are marrying somebody else. I have no interest in this tedious Soul-affair. Matter solved.”

John looked at him disbelievingly, mouth hanging open. Somewhere in those snide, heartless remarks John could feel the hurt. And he was sure it wasn't wholly his.

“You and I both know that’s not quite true,” John spoke softly. He wanted to ask more on the topic but it wasn’t his business to worry why Sherlock didn't want him to be involved. “I am sorry things are this way. If I could change-”

“But you can’t, can you?” Sherlock exploded standing on his feet. John gaped at the sudden outburst. “I never asked for this.” Sherlock’s hands gestured dismissively towards him. “I never wanted to find you. All that mattered to me is work. And now every time I try to think, there you are!”

John could sense his pulse accelerating. He wanted to reach out to Sherlock, just to touch him, to make him feel better. He controlled his impulse, cursing their biology.

“This is difficult. I can’t function like this,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes momentarily. His hands landed on the desk heavily and head sagged between them. Seeing him so helpless churned John’s heart once again.

“Yes, you can,” John spoke. “I can understand you want to be left alone to your business but we both know it’s going to be difficult to lead our lives without each other now. Our connection has strengthened. I bet you feel it too. I am marrying Mary and you have your detective work to do. It’s better if we stick together without involving any bloody bonding. It would be easier for us both.”

Sherlock looked at him with an expression very close to astonishment before he spoke. “Do you think it would work?”

“It has to work. I don’t see another way out unless you have anything else on your mind.”

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock said. Corners of his lips twitched up in a hint of smile. John smiled back. “You aren't as stupid as I thought you’d be.”

John raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t take it personally. Practically everybody is an idiot. Well, except me,” Sherlock replied superficially. John stared at him before breaking down in fit of giggles. Not long after, Sherlock’s deep chuckles joined.

* * *

 

John stood up the instant he heard Mary’s key in the lock. He nervously rubbed his palms together, looking around the living room. He had made some lasagna when he had returned from Sherlock’s and had waited patiently for the next two hours for her to come home from work.

John saw Mary dropping her keys in their key-bowl before her eyes came to find him standing across the room. Her nostrils flared just a bit before she started towards the kitchen.

“I cooked dinner,” John said but Mary didn't halt in the living room. He had expected this sort of reaction. He followed her to the kitchen. “I've set the table already.”  She started putting things from her bag in their usual places, completely ignoring him.

John crossed the room and gently put his hand on her shoulder. Her hand ceased its movement. He continued, taking advantage of her momentary silence. “Mary. I need to tell you something.”

She turned around to face him. Her face was hard, not really forgiving. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I was going through a lot of stressing issues yesterday. I know it doesn't justify what I've done. I should have called you. I’m sorry-”

“What issues?” Mary asked. She crossed her arms across her chest, challenging. When John looked puzzled she inquired, “What were the issues you were going through that didn't even allow you thirty-bloody-seconds to let me know you were okay?”

“I was- It’s a long story.”

“I've got all night.”

“Mary, please-”                                                   

“This is exactly what’s bothering me, John. You don’t trust me enough to tell what’s upsetting you!”

“That’s not true!”

“Then why can’t you tell me?” Mary countered.                   

John knew it was a lost battle. He sighed and said, “Alright, fine. Let’s sit down?”

John waited until they were sitting on the dining table. He looked at Mary who had taken seat opposite to him. She was tapping her fingers on the table with an air of impatience. He took a deep breath in and said slowly, measuring every word. “I've found my Soulmate.”

It seemed like the air between them had become thicker as he looked in Mary’s eyes, calculating her every reaction. Her eyes went wide in shock. Her fingers halted on the table as her whole body went rigid. John tried not to flinch under her scandalised gaze.

Her voice was guttural when she spoke. “What- what do you mean you found your Soulmate?”

John slid his hands forward to grasp her fingers between his palms. He wasn't even sure if she recognised his actions going by the dazed expression she bore on her face. “Do you remember the patient I was talking about the other day? The one who didn't want me to touch him?” John waited until she nodded. “He is my Soulmate. His name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“H-how’s that possible?” Mary said in a barely audible voice.

“I don’t know. I-” John could now feel her fingers trembling and see the tears in her eyes which he could tell she was trying very hard to control.

“But our hearts beat together,” Mary whispered. Her left hand escaped John’s fingers to rest on his chest.

“That’s not the only norm,” John said, covering her hand with his. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. “But it doesn't matter. I’m not leaving you. We’re going to spend rest of our lives together. I don’t care if forever or not.”

A tear ran down her cheek as her face crumpled in snivel. She hunched her shoulders forward trying to escape from John’s stare. John walked to her and sat down on his knees by her chair, never letting her hands break free from his grasp.

“Hey, look at me,” John urged her. Mary looked at him with teary eyes while he continued, “Remember when I said, ‘I don’t want to spend my life with anyone else but you,’ when I proposed?” John asked softly. He released her hands to capture her face to make sure her eyes stayed on him. “I still mean it. Do you want that too?”

“Yes, oh God, yes” Mary whispered back before their lips crushed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is beta'd by [Thefacelesswriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/profile) . If you find any mistakes they're entirely mine.


	4. Chapter 4

John heard his alarm going off in their bedroom. Estimating the time Mary would take to get freshened up, he put the kettle on. It was only six in the morning. Soft sun rays were peeking through the French windows of their kitchen. He limped there and opened those windows wider, letting cool morning breeze in, admiring the beautiful morning outside.

He had woken at three in the morning and remembered dreaming about Sherlock. Even the thought of the man was enough to make him feel culpable. They had established an accord the day before for both of their sanity's sake and for a brief period of time it had seemed to work. Yet waking up in the middle of night with your fiancée sleeping on your side while thinking of a certain man with high cheekbones, unruly hair and eyes with a shattering intensity, just didn't fit in the picture. He wondered if only he felt the growing connection between them. He wished it was his mind playing tricks. He did not want the connection between them to strengthen anymore than it already had.

He loved Mary and knew she loved him just as much. She didn't deserve to be treated like a substitute for his Soulmate. Mary had accepted him and now was his chance to set things right. His limp had pronounced evidently after the emotional turmoil he had been through the night before. Sherlock Holmes's sudden appearance had changed many little things between him and Mary. They were more careful around each other since a Soulmate bond no longer held them together. They were still engaged, yes, but the knowledge of John and Sherlock's connection had shaken the very cornerstone of their relationship. _This is only a new phase. It'll take some time to adjust_ , an understanding Mike had said. That had angered John even more. He had never assumed the transition was going to be easy, but the least he could do for his -and especially Mary's- sake was to make it sufferable. So when he couldn't sleep without seeing his Soulmate’s face in dreams, he stopped pretending to be sleeping and got up to make Mary a nice breakfast. He needed to make sure she knew that she still was and always would be his priority.

John's phone chimed, indicating arrival of a text. Sighing, he turned from the kitchen to fetch the phone. He hoped he hadn't been summoned in the hospital. A text from an unknown number flashed on the screen.

_Received at 06:09 AM  
Can a thread of diameter 4mm be enough to asphyxiate a man? SH_

Frowning at the text John constructed a reply and hit send.

_Sent at 6:09 AM  
Who is this?_

"Kettle's boiled."

John looked up from his phone to see Mary hesitating by the kitchen door. Her eyes were still puffy and reddened from last night's crying. Her shoulders were hunched forward and she looked terribly tired. A tentative smile played on her lips which didn't reach her eyes. John's chest clenched. Quickly he dropped the phone on the counter. He crossed the room as swiftly he could manage with a throbbing leg. Resting his palms on her hips, he pulled her close and quickly kissed her lips.

"Good morning," he whispered as he rested his forehead against her briefly. His phone tinkled from the counter top but it was ignored.

Smiling a little widely, Mary replied, "Good morning."

"I've made some breakfast. Care to join me?"

"Smells nice," said Mary and followed John to the dining table.

"Don't get your hopes high, though. It's only an egg fry and some toast," he said pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to sit down. Chuckling at the sudden chivalry, Mary bowed a little and sat down. John walked to the counter and back with two mugs of sugarless tea when his phone chimed again. He set the mugs on the table along with the rest of the breakfast and sat down. Seeing Mary busy with filling their dishes, he quickly checked his phone. An attached picture of a corpse flashed on his screen. The corpse was of a man in mid-fifties. He had red bruises on his neck and an indentation on the jaw line. The picture was followed by a text.

_Received at 6:13 AM  
Sherlock Holmes. A locked room murder in Soho. Medical consultation is required. SH_

John's heart skipped a beat at the name. Recovering quickly, he typed his reply.

_Sent at 6:14 AM  
How did you get my number?_

"John?"

"Huh?" John tore his eyes from the screen to see Mary looking at him expectantly.

"I asked if you want jam on your toast," She inquired, her eyebrows raised on her forehead.

"Oh yes, I'd love some. Sorry about that. Patient," John replied smoothly, figuring it wouldn't aid their current awkwardness by bringing up his newly found Soulmate. Thankfully she didn't say anymore on the topic and they settled on safer territory of who’d be mowing the lawn this time. John completely ignored next beep from his phone before putting it on the silent mode.

"What are you going to do today, then?" Mary asked.

"Uh, I was thinking of going for the tux shopping with Mike. We both have today off and wedding is only a month away. I'll also ask him if he'd be my best man." He silently prayed to the unknown deity above. This was in no way a safe zone conversation.

Mary put her fork back in the plate slowly as if it would break the plate. The little clink it caused was followed by silence. John daren't to look at her until she spoke, "Do you think that’s a good idea?"

"I don't see why not. There's sale going on in-"

"John, you know I don't mean price wise."

John sighed heavily before saying. "Why it's not a good idea, Mary, you tell me. We are getting married in a month and I'd very much love to be in presentable clothes."

"We don't have to do this," she said in a smallest possible voice. "I can't make you to do this."

"You are _not_ making me do anything. We still are engaged and nothing- _nothing_ , you hear me- is going to change that. My feelings for you haven't changed. If yours are then-"

"No, they are not!" Mary exclaimed, her face showing mixed emotions of hurt and anger. Good, anger was good; far better than silently sobbing into the pillow thinking John couldn't hear it.

"I know they aren't," he smiled softly at her. He squeezed her hand lying on the table and held onto it. "So let's just forget about everything that's happened in last two days and go back to how things were before. You shouting at me for not helping you plan the wedding and shouting even more when I do it because I just don't get the hang of it."

Awkward silence in the room was finally chased away by Mary's timid laugh, slowly draining the tension between them. John squeezed her hand again and leaned to kiss her lips.

After some quiet minutes of kissing, Mary spoke. "I'm going to take shower now. As much as I'd love to spend rest of the day talking over oddly shaped egg fries as breakfast, I'm afraid I have a shift at the hospital." She kissed John again before heading to the bathroom.

John sat eating his remaining breakfast, feeling blessed and loved with a sense of returning normality. He had missed this. The mere act of kissing Mary brought immense relief to John's mind. That was the kind of effect Mary had on John. He had seen terrors of the war and lived through the post-war void, but with Mary it was different. She was much like an exceptionally warm day in winter. He wouldn't say he didn't miss the fervour driven days of the army but the sense of security Mary brought with her was oddly comforting for an ex-army doctor like John.

The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing pulled John out his thoughts. With a mind more at ease, he got up to wash the dishes. Somewhere back in his mind he still felt the need of doing everything in his reach to make Mary feel happy. Since an unsullied kitchen had always helped his case in the past, he started clearing the table. After a while he noticed the phone lying under a napkin on the table top. Hesitantly he unlocked it to find texts from the same unknown number waiting for him.

_Received at 6:16 AM  
You didn't answer my question. SH_

_Received at 6:18 AM  
Statistically speaking, thread of that diameter wouldn't be able to throttle enough to cut off the oxygen supply unless the victim is not fully conscious. Or physically impaired. SH_

_Received at 6:23 AM  
I'd appreciate your assistance on this case. Anderson's competency is worse than a snail's. SH_

_Received at 6:41 AM  
I thought you said we could work it out together. SH_

John swallowed the thickness in his throat as he read the last message. With this rate, it wouldn’t be long before he fucked up his arrangement with Sherlock too. _Great_. _Fucking perfect_. Quickly he wrote back.

_Sent at 6:53 AM  
Sorry. Didn't hear the text alert. And yes, string of that size can asphyxiate if it's strong enough. But that's not the case with the dead man, is it?_

_Received at 6:54 AM  
What do you mean? SH_

_Sent at 6:54 AM  
Well, you can see a little red blotch under his left jaw line. Looks like he was injected by rather a thick needle. Chocked on his own vomit?_

A minute after he sent the text he felt a great wave of thrill washing over his body. He nervously tapped his phone waiting for Sherlock's reply: it never came. His blood pressure was steadily increasing. He could _sense_ Sherlock getting excited. For a brief moment John thought Sherlock was going to get himself in trouble again. He considered calling his brother but he had no means to contact him. After helpless panic rush, John got to his feet. He needed to do _something_.

He hurriedly dialed Sherlock's number. He rushed to the bedroom and changed quickly into old faded jeans. Sherlock didn't pick up. He redialled.

"Mary, I'm going out. Emergency," he shouted in general direction of the bathroom as he ran out of the flat. His heart was thumping faster but he recognised it wasn't from the fear. It was almost euphoric. All he could hope was it wasn't from some drug effect. He flagged a cab down.

"221B, Baker Street. Get me there in 10 minutes and I'll pay you double."  The cabbie nodded and drove on.

After agonisingly sluggish 10 minutes, the cab slowed down on Baker Street. John thrust bills in the cabbie's hand, more than even the double of the fair. He was out of the cab before it fully pulled to the kerb.  He ran to the door and knocked frantically. The landlady's rushing but _oh-so-slow_ footsteps reached the door finally as it swung open.

"Oh hello, dear-"

"Sherlock. Is he here?" John asked between heaving breaths.

Her face scrunched up in confusion before she replied, "No, he isn't here. The usual inspector from the yard came and both they went somewhere. Are you okay, dear?"

" _Jesus,_ " John whispered, now panting harder.

"Come inside, luv. You look edgy." Mrs. Hudson ushered him in. He half heard her tsking about how flushed he looked. Instead he listened to his fast paced heart thumping against his ribcage as he bound up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.

John paced through the living room- perturbed and jittery- when Mrs. Hudson came in with a steaming cup of tea. He declined it with as much politeness he could muster given the situation and continued moving about the room, right palm lying on his heart- mapping out every beat. Mrs. Hudson threw him worried glances for another minute but eventually left him alone to agitate.

After another fifteen fidgety minutes John felt his heart slowing down, though it never attained the normal pace. But this was bearable. At least he knew Sherlock wouldn't be in danger anymore. He settled on a desk chair gingerly, looking at the room properly for the first time since he came. It was cluttered with all sorts of papers; files that were sealed with 'CONFIDENTIAL' written on them. He traced a through hole in the wooden desk. _Acid probably_ , he thought. A chemistry set was kept precariously at the end of the desk and a tea mug that wasn't his by its side. Half of the tea had evaporated. John wondered how many days it had been abandoned there.

Within all the mess of the near unlivable flat, a violin case stood by the mantelpiece. The carefully polished case gleamed in the morning sunlight coming through the window. It looked oddly misplaced in mare's nest that was Sherlock's flat. John never knew Sherlock played the violin though it somehow fitted seamlessly into the detective’s personality. John imagined the elegant fingers latching onto the bow as it swiftly glided over the strings while Sherlock's neck cradled the violin elegantly. It was a beautiful thought. And also a _very_ distracting one.

Before John could drown himself in guilt ridden thinking, the quick opening and closing of the front door of 221B saved the day. He instantly stood up on his feet as two sets of footsteps and muffled voices reached him. It sounded like an argument.

"-and I'm _not_ your tamer, Sherlock. You cannot go on your own without-"

"John." Sherlock's voice stopped the other man mid-sentence. John tried taking in every detail of Sherlock he could- hair dishevelled from wind, no visible cuts; his trousers were torn at the knee and mud on the shirt. But the most striking was the black eye which was now swollen up and turning a shade of purple that almost matched Sherlock's shirt.

John's heart was picking up speed again and this time it had nothing to do with the adrenaline. The relief he felt when he saw Sherlock was extraordinary. It was so overpowering that John felt the need to sit down. He saw Sherlock’s hand clutched at the doorframe. He wasn't the only one relieved at the sight of their Soulmat. John could almost taste on tip of his tongue the tension leaving upon Sherlock seeing him. He remembered his own agitation as soon as he had sensed Sherlock was in danger. He panicked internally thinking how their little arrangement of coexisting together was going to work if this feeling to protect and be protected was going to only heighten through their acquaintance.

They might have stared at each other longer than socially acceptable because the silver haired man behind Sherlock cleared his throat. He looked at Sherlock and then at John with a tiny hinting smirk on his face.

"Hi," John said. His brain was working slower. It almost felt like being dizzy.

Sherlock's emotions took hiding behind the blank façade of his face when he spoke, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience I may have caused you. I shall keep in mind to inform you beforehand from the next time."

"It's... It's fine, really." _No it was not fine in any sense_ , John yelled mentally. Why wasn't he able to say what he actually felt? Why must he become this hormone-driven teenager every time he saw Sherlock?

Behind Sherlock, the man shifted his weight from one leg to another uncomfortably. Taking the hint, Sherlock said, "John, this is D.I Lestrade from the Scotland Yard." John could feel the intense pair of eyes following every move as he stepped forward to shake the man's hand. "Lestrade, this is John, my friend-"

"Colleague," John corrected with a forced smile. Lestrade smiled at him tentatively, probably tasting the tension between them too. Sherlock chose not to betray any emotion on his face, yet John could get an impression of hurt. It amazed him how much he understood the man after knowing him for no more than a week.

"Er, right," the DI said, breaking the awkward silence. "Sherlock, I want you to come down to the Yard and give the statement by this afternoon." When Sherlock started to protest, Lestrade shook his head. "No, not tomorrow. Today. I have file work piling up. I don't want any more of it. Are we clear?"

"You don't get to boss me around." Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"Yes, I do. I just saved your genius arse from the gunfire. I want you in my office. Today." And with that the DI left.

Sherlock expelled a heavy, dramatic sigh, reminding John very much of actresses in the midday soap operas his mum used to watch. With a single swift moment he untied the scarf around his neck to throw it unceremoniously on the sofa. His long coat, which gave him a mysterious and untouchable appearance -is that why he chose to wear it? To keep him distant from the ordinary people?- was discarded with just as little care. John saw Sherlock's pale fingers lifting up a flask containing auburn liquid. He gave the flask some swirls. The colour faded to pink and a wicked grin appeared on Sherlock's face before he carefully replaced it.

"A case, was it?" John asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Listen, Sherlock-"

"You aren't limping today."

"I- what?" John stuttered. The question had thrown him off guard. 

"Your limp. Last time I saw you limping you were in distress. You knew I was in danger and that must have caused you some distress too, as your life as well depended on it.” John now held Sherlock's complete attention. He tried not to squirm. “Given the tautness in your stance, I would say you leg was hurting this morning. But you aren't limping now. Why is that?" John wasn't sure if the question was directed at him. It seemed more like Sherlock asking himself. Even if it was, he didn't know the answer. The limp was psychosomatic. There was very less he could do about it. "Your limp gets pronounced when you are under stress was my first assumption. It's not only the stress that causes the pain, is it? It's quite the opposite. _Interesting_."

John didn't move away from Sherlock's scrutinising gaze. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he deduced the life story sitting in his appearance. John's spine straightened, chin raised up on its own account. He met the taller man's stare coolly: like a soldier.

"D.I. said something about gunfire?" John asked instead of commenting on his leg.

"Hmm? Oh that. Yes, stupid miscalculation on my account," Sherlock replied, dismissing John's question. He turned away from him to shuffle through the countless number of papers on the desk.

"You do know a stupid calculation on your account could have killed us both, right?" John asked. He recalled the time when he had felt stirred up as he had sent the text, when Sherlock was probably getting shot at. He didn't see the danger; he saw the puzzle that needed to be solved. The danger didn't excite him. It was the thrill of being able to solve the mystery. If danger came along with it, it wasn't given much thought.

"Why didn't you think of that before you went to the war then?" Sherlock replied, not looking up.

Sherlock's reply took him by surprise. "Does it bother you? That I was in the army when we weren't bonded?"

Sherlock looked at him over the papers in his hand. "No, it doesn't. I was no less self destructive back then. It didn't stop me overdosing myself, did it?"

They hadn't spoken about the overdose episode. Hell, they hadn't spoken about anything important at all. They needed to talk about it soon, John's therapist would've advised. He didn't know when a good time was to bring up such topics of conversations. He was not the sort of a man to discuss his feelings. He figured Sherlock wasn't one too.

"So you aren't now?” John hesitated. “Self destructive?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. His fingers halted on the papers. He was very careful not to look at John. "I guess, I'm not anymore. You can relax."

"Christ, I wasn't asking for my safety.” John retorted. Sherlock’s cool gaze swept over him before returning to the papers in his hands. John took a deep breath before asking, “Have you, uh, done it… since then?"

"If you're asking about drugs, no, I haven't. It was easier to get high before I knew you." John saw Sherlock couldn't keep from grimacing at that.

"How long have you been doing it?"

"Six years."

That must have been around the time when he went to Afghanistan. Did Sherlock feel the connection when John was on the field? Adrenaline driving him to stitch his mates while other soldiers fought around them or those exceptional times when he had to pick up his gun when he was getting shot at?

"Yes."

"Sorry, what?"

"Yes, I sensed it. Your heart beating faster. It wasn't the best combination with my brain never taking a minute from buzzing. Opioid was the easiest way to not _feel_ anything." John didn't know how Sherlock seemed to know whatever he was thinking. Creepy, yes, it was creepy. But it also showed what it was like in his brain.

John nodded at Sherlock's explanation. The topic was over, for now at least. He was glad.

"Do you want some tea?" Sherlock asked. He put the papers down abruptly and looked up at John. When John looked puzzled at the sudden change of topic, Sherlock asked a little uncertainly, "That's what ordinary people do, don't they? Offer tea and biscuits?"

John's lips curled in a smile as he nodded. "Yes, that's us lot."

"Kettle's in the right corner on the counter and tea bags in third cupboard from left. You'll find sugar under the dining table chair and milk by the foot in the fridge. I like it with two sugars," Sherlock ordered in a quick tongue before resuming his paper work. John didn't suppress a laugh this time. He could see Sherlock smiling from corner of his eye.

Ten minutes passed before John asked Sherlock “So you play the violin?” as he sipped on his sugarless tea. They were sitting in the living room- Sherlock on a leather chair and John across from him on another armchair, gulping down their tea. It felt strangely domestic to be doing this with someone like Sherlock Holmes.

"Hmm. Helps me to think. Also keeps Mrs. Hudson's mindless chattering away from my ears," he replied.

"I'd like to hear you play sometime."

"You would?" Sherlock asked incredulously. The utter surprise in his tone was itself a surprise. _Had no one done showed interest before?_ John felt pity which he tried to suppress before it made an appearance in other man’s mind. He met Sherlock’s eyes over the mug in his hand. The tea tasted surprisingly okay, given the milieu the fridge was kept in. He had thought a severed foot would be the worst of the things kept in it. Clearly, he was wrong.

"Yeah, of course. Mary would like it too. She has an ear for classical music."

Sherlock's excitement dropped remarkably at Mary's name. Hiding his face behind his cup, he replied, "Does she?"

"Yeah. She said she'd even like to meet you." Now it was John's turn to hide his face.

"Why would she want that?" Sherlock asked furrowing his brows.

John shrugged. "I told her yesterday about, uh, about us. She said she'd like to know who my Soulmate is. If that's amenable to you, of course."

"She's okay with our arrangement?" _Arrangement_. Somehow hearing Sherlock say it wasn't comforting.

"Ah, yes. She is."

"I don't mind meeting her. It's not as if I'm going to be here any longer."

There. This was something John had been avoiding all along. Sherlock going to rehab for God-knows-how-long upon the will of his brother. Somehow not seeing a certain consulting detective everyday was a thought he couldn't digest.

John wondered what it was like for Sherlock. Did he not like seeing John with somebody else? He had made himself clear on the 'Soul-uniting business', as he called it. He wasn't interested in John. It shouldn't, but the thought left a painful tinge in him. John wondered if he’d mind seeing Sherlock with somebody else. The thought was disquieting.

It wasn't fair of him to ask so much of Sherlock, he realised. The man was struggling with his never-ceasing brain and emotional needs while John was doing nothing but intensify the complexity of the situation. Maybe introducing Mary to Sherlock was not one of the best ideas.

"If Saturday works for you both…" Sherlock's voice brought John to the room again.

"You don't have to do it. It was just a thought."

"I want to meet her," Sherlock replied with decisive finality. John nodded. The way Sherlock said _'her'_ though, made John feel as if he was having an affair with Mary while keeping Sherlock in dark.

"So,” John asked, desperately needing to change the way their conversation was going, “solved the case?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and a true-to-God honest smile spread on his face. "Yes. Your input was quite helpful."

"I'm glad I could be helpful." John’s smile matched Sherlock's. "What is it you do exactly? Well, I know you're a detective-"

" _A_ _consulting_ detective."

"-yes, a _consulting_ detective. How can I forget?" John said, grinning. "What do you do exactly, though?"

"As I said earlier, Scotland Yard and occasionally the British government consult me on riddles they cannot solve. It could be anything- cracking a code, hunting down a person, or most of the times a murderer. Serial homicides are my personal favourite, though." John stared at him wide eyed, expressions between horror and puzzlement when he realised it wasn't some twisted joke. Sherlock twitched uncomfortably in his seat. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

"The _point_ is my work is exciting and thoroughly satisfying. You should come with me on a case sometime. You have an affinity to danger, I daresay."

John wasn't sure if he should feel offended. Yet the pure joy on Sherlock's face meant he hadn't intended on such offense. And who was he kidding? He could have chosen to start a practice in London after completing med school, yet had chosen getting shot at under blazing Sun. He indeed had an _affinity to danger_.

"Yes, I'd like that, yeah," John said.

"You can come to the Bart’s with me today. I'll explain how the man was murdered. It was brilliant. I think you'll like it too, being a doctor and all," Sherlock said with an excitement of a five-year-old. He was actually enthused by the prospect of showing John a corpse in the morgue as if Christmas had come eight months early.

John laughed at the absurdity of their situation, wondering what had got him here in the first place, but could only ask looking at his thrilled Soulmate, "When do we leave?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is beta'd by [Thefacelesswriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/profile) . If you find any mistakes they're entirely mine.


	5. Chapter 5

In the following days, John started going to crime scenes with Sherlock. He would get a call from the detective at any point of the day, asking- _ordering_ , really- him to come immediately to the crime scene. John, at first, had found it odd but the excitement he felt with the prospect, always convinced him otherwise. Many of the times John had to give poor excuses at the surgery just so that he could assist Sherlock. He didn’t mind, not really. John enjoyed their adventures. He found himself toying with his phone, waiting for it to ring and to be summoned to some odd crime scene. Mary had seen his alertness but didn't give any indication of annoyance. Many nights he had returned late still running high on adrenaline and she had given him tight lipped smile but hadn't commented on it.

Apart from that, if you ask John, the three of them were doing just fine.

As time went by, John began to recognize the other little quirks of Sherlock Holmes. He had learned forcing Sherlock to do things would only result in being subjected to one of the great Sherlockian sulks. Yet, avoiding the topic intentionally would get things done smoothly, without much a fuss. He learnt this on one Wednesday afternoon when John found Sherlock peering through the lens of the microscope, half bent and half standing by the kitchen table. Last night's takeaway was still on the counter- uncovered and now stinking, just as John had left it for Sherlock to eat. Insisting him to eat clearly hadn't worked. John made his way to the counter as Sherlock continued to disregard his presence. He saw the pasta on the highest shelf. It used to be on the cupboard bellow the counter until yesterday. John took no time to conclude it was one certain detective's doing. _The bastard_. His fingers could only brush against container but not grip it. Without losing his cool, he sat on the counter and twisted his hand around, successfully bringing the container down. He put handful of it in the pot of boiling water. Sherlock would have to find another place to put it now. He smiled slyly with his back to him.

Once the pasta was made, he tossed it on a plate with a simple white sauce. He got a spoon and fork (never two forks; Sherlock would substantiate it as a trap) and then brought the plate to the table where Sherlock was sitting. The detective looked up from the eyepiece briefly at John, who took a mouthful of the food. Pretending he was oblivious of his own manipulation, he grinned at the detective. He could hardly hold back the chuckle at the detective's baffled expression.

"Aren't you going to force me to eat?" He asked.

"No," John answered, feeding himself another spoonful.

"But you always force me to eat."

"Not always," John said and looked at his plate, indicating. "What is this, a new experiment?" he asked, gesturing at the microscope.

As Sherlock went into a mode of explanation, John pushed the plate towards him, inch by inch. At some point the detective had the fork in his hand and pasta in his mouth. _Mission accomplished._

The man was all about odd habits. Some were downright disturbing while others worried the doctor in John; one of which was Sherlock's insomnia. He had debated prescribing the man a soporific, but given Sherlock’s tendency of self destruction he decided against it. But as everything goes, this problem also had a solution too.

Sherlock and John had returned to 221B in the morning, after a long chase in dark alleyways of London. In the euphoria of solving the case and handing the culprit to the met, John had forgotten how tired he really was. He was hungry and snappy while the detective was still a bundle of bubbling energy. The man hadn't slept in at least 36 hours but that hadn't affected his chattering mouth. As he turned to the kitchen to make some breakfast, John wondered if sealing his mouth with a sticky tape would work.

He made Sherlock some toast which was ignored in favour of plucking nails from the fingers of a cadaver. It was disturbing but John was far too tired to do anything about it. He collapsed on the sofa and put the telly on. The sound of clipping nails ceased after a while and great thump erupted from the other side of the sofa. Soon the television’s volume was overpowered by the curses being thrown at it. Not that John was listening to either.

At some time in the afternoon, John woke up. The detective’s feet were dumped on John’s lap. His head was resting on the arm of the sofa. His mouth hung open and tiny bit of glistening saliva could be seen at the corner along with the crumbs of toast. Buttons of his perfectly tailored shirt were popped from their holes, exposing his slender neck. John swallowed the thickness in his throat. His heart was beating just bit faster and breathing shallower. He could see Sherlock squirming where he was sleeping, definitely feeling their speeding heart.

John stood up at once. Reluctantly, he replaced Sherlock's feet on the sofa before throwing the blanket from backrest on the detective's limp body. It was harder than usual to leave 221B that day. From the next time, whenever John couldn't take anymore of Sherlock's deductions, he left the telly on and waited for him to doze off; except he never sat on the sofa with Sherlock again.

In privacy of his mind, John could admit that he thought about a certain consulting detective far too often. He had caught himself thinking about those high cheekbones and sharp eyes more frequently than it was healthy for their _arrangement_. He even wondered if he was doing the right thing. But he wasn’t going to take back his words. He wasn't going to back away from marriage like his father had. He was nothing like his father and he would spend rest of his life trying to prove it, if he had to.

He had been too young to understand why his father had left all those years ago. He remembered his mother dressed up in a beautiful white, bouffant dress. He himself had worn his best suit and Harry her pink frock which she kept fidgeting with. Guests were seated. The day was bright and sunny for the usually gloomy London sky. His mother told him his father was just a little late, but that he would be coming at any moment. John waited by the window in case they missed him coming in. He would crane his neck looking for his father's old Ford when a car would pass outside. No car stopped at the church. He remembered his grandma pulling him away from the window after some time. He didn't want to go. He was afraid he would miss his father coming in. John wondered if he had forgotten the road. But nobody listened to him.  John saw his mother crying in her beautiful, white dress as grandpa comforted her. He wanted to ask what was wrong but grandma was pulling him away and stuffing him and Harry into her car, saying _'it's gonna be fine_ '. Harry's eyes were red and puffy and as their grandma drove them back home, she told him that their father had left. _Hadn't he just found us?_ John had innocently asked. Hearing that, Harry started crying harder and John joined her.

John had seen his mother struggle for her two young kids. He knew how helpless it felt hearing his mother cry in the middle of the night. John wasn’t going to do the same to Mary. He wasn’t going to be his father’s son.

And as life was now, John believed it was all working out for them. Going to crime scenes with Sherlock didn’t mean anything. He was marrying Mary, nothing was going to change that. His attraction towards Sherlock was nothing but biological. He would get used to it. 

* * *

 

John and Mary were meeting Sherlock on Saturday in _Carluccios,_ a little Italian restaurant where John and Mary usually dined _._ He was nervous, to put it mildly, and Sherlock's worked up state at the other end of their connection due lack of a decent case wasn't helping. When he had visited 221B on Friday afternoon, he had been subjected to yelling because criminals of London were not being creative and as if it was John’s fault entirely. John silently made some tea and Mrs. Hudson brought them some biscuits. He kept them in front of Sherlock who was stretched out, cursing in his posh tongue at world in general. John ignored the glare Sherlock sent his way for being mediocre. Taking his cup, he sat in his chair. They’d known each other for just in two weeks and already John had 'his chair' in 221B. It was surprisingly a reassuring thought.

John flicked the telly on. He heard a suffering sigh from the sofa and the stomping of feet before the lanky detective dropped on the chair in front of John's. From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock dunking a biscuit into his tea. The doctor smiled behind the rim of his cup. If Sherlock had come with a manual, it would have been a lot easier for the people around.

"You are turning me into Mycroft," grumbled Sherlock.

"A few more stones on that body won't make you Mycroft," John replied. "Making creepy black cars follow people around would."

Sherlock laughed his throaty laugh and took another bite of his biscuit. John watched the detective’s movements. Long fingers had gripped the biscuit delicately as the shining pair of eyes glared at it. His mouth was curled at the corners in a grimace. The black bruise around his eye was no longer visible unless stood in close proximity. But he was still far too thin for John's liking. The man was just skin and bones, skinny for even a drug abuser. Even so, in refuge of his mind, John admitted he was aesthetically pleasing.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"I can tell you are thinking about me but in what content exactly?"

"Shut up and finish your tea," John said.

"You were thinking about me. I have a right to know what."

"I don't have to tell you what I think all the time."

"That implies you think about me all the time.” John glared. “And no, you don't have to tell me your every thought. But I will figure it out eventually, judging by the assuagement you expressed as you saw me drinking tea." John flushed red as he took another long sip. "So why don't you save us both the trouble and tell me what you were thinking."

John sighed. It was impossible arguing with the man. Replacing his cup back upon the saucer, he said, "I was thinking, how someone can be so smart and so stupid at the same time."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow up, challenging. John smirked and then continued.    

"You go on days without eating anything. How will your brain work if you don't give it enough fuel to go on?"

"Digestion slows me down," Sherlock retorted, clanking cup and saucer on the table offhandedly.

"You are an idiot." John smiled at the scandalised look Sherlock gave him. He was like a four year old in an adult body.

They watched TV in silence for some time. Well, John did. Sherlock rectified every dialogue uttered. John didn't complain; it proved to be amusing entertainment. Outside the sky was darkening and moon appeared at a corner of the window, indicating it was time for John to head back.

He stood up and cleared away the cups, when Sherlock spoke. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah. Mary has a night shift. I have to make dinner tonight," John said. He didn't really want to leave. He'd rather sit here and watch crap telly instead of waiting alone at home for Mary.

"You could eat here and order takeaway for her. You can sleep upstairs in the spare bedroom if you want," Sherlock supplied.

"I'd love to but we are supposed to finalise the guest list by tonight." In less than two weeks he was getting married. It also meant Sherlock was leaving in a week for Switzerland. It was a depressing thought. The doctor suddenly didn't feel as complacent as he did a moment ago.

Sherlock's jaws visibly clenched. He sank in his chair before turning around to bury his face in the backrest. John bit the inside of his cheeks.

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow. No need to pout," John said, pulling on his coat.

_Don't want to go. Don't want you to go._

"I'm not pouting. I don't _pout,_ " Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the cushion.

 _Stay_. _For me._

"See you tomorrow, Sherlock," John said heavily. _How I wish I could_.

* * *

 

Mary adjusted her dress for what seemed to John like a hundredth time. He looked impatiently at his watch and then met Mary's eyes in the mirror.

"You look fine, Mary. Sherlock is not really about appearance."

"From what you have been telling me he's all about appearance," Mary replied, smoothing down non-existing creases on her dress.

"Believe me, the harder you try the more keenly he'll look." John encircled his arms around Mary’s waist. Her shoulders were tensed. He brushed a kiss there. "You'll be fine."

She nodded and quietly said, "I'm not worried about that."

"You don't have to worry about anything," he said, tightening arms around her. He kissed behind her ear as their eyes met once again. She mirrored his smile but it didn’t seem genuine.

* * *

John and Mary had already been seated when Sherlock arrived. They had reached the restaurant half hour earlier than their reservation time. Mary was talking only when asked a direct question. Her foot kept jumping up and down under the table anxiously, so John ordered wine to ease her nerves. With one sip down his throat, he realised he needed it just as much. The restaurant was decent, with cosy booths. Lights were deemed creating intimate atmosphere while cello played from the staging area. The piece on cello ended and the diners applauded. Sherlock chose the exact moment to enter. _Even the man's entry is grand_ , John thought. His heart missed a beat, something that John now associated with Sherlock. He no longer chose to ponder on what it meant for their arrangement.

Sherlock was, as usual, impeccably dressed. He must have left his coat by the counter. He was wearing a white, silk shirt which John secretly admitted looked excellent on him. Even Mary looked stunned. A sense of pride filled John. He wondered how she had pictured Sherlock in her mind, but he couldn't imagine any description which could fit his Soulmate that wasn't pale skin, dark and curly hair, high cheekbones, genius and snide remarks. Sherlock walked straight to their table, dismissing the stewardess showing him the way. Either he knew the place too well or he just had a sixth sense for finding things.

John's heart fluttered more as Sherlock strode closer. Mary stood to meet his Soulmate, as did John.

"Sherlock Holmes," he spoke in his deep voice with no preamble as he reached them. He had his hand stretched out, waiting for Mary to take it. She uncertainly glanced at John before taking it in hers with an ambivalent laugh.

"Mary Morstan," she said, smiling now. "John's..."

"Fiancée," John completed with lips closed in a tight smile. He swore he saw Sherlock arching his eyebrow. John gestured them to sit down.

"I have taken liberty to order wine. Hope you don't mind," John said civilly as the tension at their table steadily grew. He wondered why he was being so polite. To make Mary believe they were nothing more that casual acquaintances? Or to pretend this was normal?

"Irrelevant. I don't drink on working nights," the detective said dismissively. John saw Sherlock's gaze going to Mary's. She still looked nervous. John hoped that Sherlock would let his deductions pass this time.  

"Working night? You have a case?" He asked to distract Sherlock.

"Hm? No, just an experiment. I'm measuring coagulation of saliva after death."

Mary looked at John to double check if she heard him correctly. John suppressed a chuckle as he told her, "That's normal, considering his other experiments."

"John tells me you are a detective," Mary said, a little hesitant to start a conversation. John didn't blame her. Sherlock always looked peremptory.

Sherlock's eyes rolled up at the heavens as if he had been subjected to all the excruciations in the world, yet when he answered his tone was playfully accusing. "A _consulting_ detective. Really, John. I'm disappointed. Can't even tell your Soulmate's occupation correctly?"

"Yeah, well, we're not all Sherlock Holmes. We forget details in between." John smiled and took a sip from his wine glass as the waiter appeared. Having their orders placed and enough wine to ease the jitters in his stomach, John relaxed back in his seat. Sherlock, with John’s insistence, had ordered pasta while he and Mary had settled on their usual grilled straw and hay fettuccine. What concerned him was that Mary was already on her second glass of wine and dinner hadn't even arrived.

"Tell me about one of your cases, Sherlock. John here hardly tells me anything," Mary said, smiling prettily at him. _Wine wasn't a bad idea after all,_ John thought.

Sherlock told her about their latest case. He didn't even try to be modest as he described how brilliantly he had deduced the gardener with green ladder must be the murderer. Neither did he try to be subtle while explaining lack of ability of Scotland Yard. Mary smiled at appropriate places and told him he was really good at his work. Puffed up by the compliment, he deduced one of the diners. Mary giggled as he deduced the man's sexual escapades. Little attention was paid to John but he didn't mind. Sherlock seemed to approve of Mary. 

"-and he has been making eyes at you, Mary. Look at how his knees are positioned."

"His knees?" Mary asked, looking at the man's feet as she took another gulp of wine.

"See how those are turned towards you? And he's looking at you after every 23 seconds on average," Sherlock replied.

"Oh good. Good that I have options too, I suppose," Mary said. John looked at her, dazed. Mary realised what she had said. She had same stricken expression on her face when she met his eyes. "I didn't... I didn't mean that way. God..."

"I know. It's fine." From the corner of his vision, John saw Sherlock watching them closely. He forced a smile. God only knew what he had deduced from it.

Thankfully, the waiter chose the moment to bring them their meals. With a tiny smile on his face, John watched Sherlock grimacing at it. Eventually he picked up his spoon to scoop some up.

"Here," John passed the salt to Sherlock, "you'll want some salt with that. It's not enough salty for your taste." Sherlock, without confirming, trusted John and sprinkled some on his pasta. John felt oddly touched by the unintended gesture.

"You want some?" He asked Mary. She was looking at him and Sherlock as if some great epiphany had stuck her. John looked at her questioningly. She shook her head and went back to her meal.

Not aware of their exchange- or not caring about it- Sherlock spoke, "John, we are going to the Bart's tomorrow."

His imperative tone made John raise his eyebrows. Though, he knew he would be going because he had no reason not to. "Are we?"

"Yes. No, no. Drop the pretense. We both know you'll be there. You have tomorrow off. I checked," Sherlock said in a disregarded tone. John chuckled. Mary gave them a tight lipped smile.

"Do I want to know how?" John asked.

Thinking a second, he replied, "Probably not."

"Fine. I'll be there. Text me the details." Seeing Sherlock still chasing pasta in his plate John added, "Only if you clean your plate though."

Sherlock looked appalled by the condition but obligingly stuffed some in his mouth.

* * *

 

Mary and John were walking down the street arm in arm on their way home. She hadn't spoken much since bidding Sherlock farewell. John didn't pry. The night must have been difficult for her. He located an empty cab and led them there. Mary got in, still not speaking, and settled against the far end of the vehicle.

John watched her for awhile, not sure how he should interpret her silence. When he couldn't take it anymore, he finally asked, "So what do you think?"

She didn't speak, didn't even turn her eyes away from the streets speeding past the window. If not for a tremor of her lip, John would have thought his question wasn't heard. So she wasn't talking to him. Or about _him?_ The dinner had gone surprisingly well, as much as it could go with Sherlock Holmes. He had been expecting Sherlock to deduce every suppressed secret of Mary's out loud. He had seen him watching her, picking up information that even John wouldn't know at lightning speed. But Sherlock hadn’t announced his deductions as he usually did. Yet, she looked unusually quiet, swallowed in her own thoughts. Had he said something wrong? He knew Sherlock hadn't.

"What is it like having found your Soulmate, John?" Mary asked quietly. John jerked his head towards her to find her still looking out of the window. Her eyes were hollow. She wasn't looking at anything in particular. Maybe she just didn't want to look at John.

John took a minute to think of an answer which wouldn't hurt her anymore, but Mary didn't wait. "It's not just having hearts beat together, is it? It's the way you think about each other. Act around each other. Like two pieces of a sphere. One alone can’t complete it."

"Mary-"

"You two are like those pieces. You fit together without a fuss. And how long you know him? Couple of weeks?" Mary laughed ruefully. "I have never seen you that happy. I didn't even know you could be that happy. I was never the other piece of that sphere."

John didn't speak. His heart clenched for her. He fisted his palm to keep away tremors that would start anytime now.

"I wonder where I fit in the picture," Mary said in a small voice.

"Stop it, Mary. Self pity doesn't suit you," John said firmly. He gripped her hand in his. "Things haven't changed. I knew tonight was a bad idea. Let's just forget this happened. Can you do that?"

"And what happens when he leaves? He's leaving a week, isn’t he? Do you think you'll be able to carry on all alone, without him being around? Have you not seen how co-dependent you already are?" Mary’s query was asked to the streets. John diverted his eyes from her. He couldn't look at her; her aloof eyes, tensed shoulders. Yet there was a rare sureness in her posture that said she wasn't crumpled by the sudden intrusion in their lives- their relationship. She was strong. But John wanted to be strong for her this once. He wanted this to be battle of two of them and not hers alone.

"We go back to how things were before him," John said quietly.

He heard a humourless laughter and heavy exhale before she spoke. "If only that could work."

John wanted to object, to tell her how wrong she was being. Tell her that things could return to as they were if they tried hard enough. Tell her that he could live without Sherlock, that he had lived all his life without him, however half lived it was. But he wasn’t sure if he himself believed any of that anymore.

After a moment John saw Mary looking at him. He painfully lifted his eyes to meet hers. They didn't say anything. Then she smiled just around the corners of her perfectly shaped lips which John loved to caress so much. He wondered how things had changed so suddenly. Her eyes were sagged and she looked tired.

And John knew she understood the dynamic between them had changed. The only difference was she was trying to accept it and he was running away. Just like when he had come back from Afghanistan- broken and unfixable- and Mary was there, putting him together. Just like the times when he had put the gun in his mouth and almost- _almost_ \- shattered his own brains but hadn't. He always chose flight instead of fight when it came down to emotions, just like his father. Yet Mary knew. One look at her John knew that she understood him better than anyone- even Sherlock. She then said, "Sherlock is brilliant. I like him."

John matched her smile with as much truthfulness as he could gather and softly admitted, because she knew, she _understood_ and John wasn't running away this time, "You are not the only one."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is beta'd by [Thefacelesswriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/profile) . If you find any mistakes they're entirely mine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sexual content.

If one was to ask John Watson, he would not agree that anything between them had changed.

It had been two days and Sherlock had entirely avoided talking about Mary. John had prodded him to share his thoughts; whether he liked her, what he had deduced about her et cetera. The detective had refused to utter a single word; either by changing the topic entirely or picking up his violin to oppress John’s obvious queries. John hadn't pushed his luck and dropped the topic eventually.

Other than that, Sherlock was his usual neutral self, but John had noticed that he was being observed by the man more than usual. He had caught Sherlock staring at him as he prepared dinner or when he was bent over the body lying on the filthy banks of Thames. After being gawked at openly in the tube once, John had raised an eyebrow quizzically. With a quick jerk of his head Sherlock had looked away, leaving John with confused thoughts and a sweet feeling flourishing inside him. Every time upon entering 221B, Sherlock looked- even though it was for the tiniest fraction of a second- like a kid given a gift months before their birthday. Every one of those times John had tried not to let the happiness blooming in his chest show on his face.

John continued to go about his work, spending time with Mary and accompanying Sherlock to cases. According to him, things were as they were before. Not normal, but definitely acceptable. If Mary looked at him with something poignant lurking behind her eyes, he chose not to give it much thought. If she threw him awkward smiles John matched them with his cheerful grins. He wished she would stop worrying. Because everything was perfect. He was marrying her in hardly two weeks; Sherlock and John were solving cases, everything was in a state of equilibrium.

It took hardly a minute to topple the balance, sending them off the tightrope they were walking since John had seen his Soulmate for the first time.

“What’s that?” John asked. He was seated on the armchair across from Sherlock who had been frenziedly tapping away on his laptop. When Sherlock looked up at him- just an eyebrow raised, enough to display annoyance at the disturbance-, John pointed at a large duffle bag next to the fire place. Craning his neck, he tried to look inside the bag. There was a glass jar containing very filthy- _bloody, too?_ \- toenails. He was not sure if he wanted to know anymore.

“An experiment. It will take more than forty hours to complete. I have no time,” Sherlock said, returning his gaze to the laptop. An uncomfortable twinge rose in John’s chest just a little. He ignored.

John furrowed his brows. “You are surfing _‘most fascinating murders of all time’_ on the internet. You have all the time.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically before replying, “It’s important in my line of profession.” The twinge built up just a bit more. Not too uncomfortable. Nothing to stress about. “Change in the climate would tamper the final result.”

“Change in climate?”

“Yes, happens when you fly five hundred miles across the continent and approximately one hundred and fifty meters higher.”

“And where are you flying?” It was no longer just a twinge. He tried pushing the panic down as it kept invading his other feelings. John could almost physically sense its origin in the man sitting in front of him who was intently avoiding his eyes.

“Switzerland.”

“In two days?” He had known it was going to happen soon and had resolutely tried to avoid thinking of it. Now that it was happening in two days, something inside him was breaking, shattering, collapsing.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock met his eyes. He wasn't letting feelings show on his face, yet, John suffered the turmoil inside along with him.

“How many-”

“Six months. Probably more.” Silence fell between the two. Sherlock had stopped typing but he determinedly kept his eyes on the laptop. John bit inside of his cheek.

“And when were you going to tell me?” John asked, anger blending with hurt, panic and longing. Sherlock’s gaze faltered. “You weren't going to tell me, were you?” Sherlock remained silent.

John got off the armchair. It was too difficult to look at him. Sherlock’s fingertips grazed against his elbow, “John-”

“You think it’s a bloody joke, don’t you?” John hissed, trying to keep breathing in control. He whirled around and took an angry step towards Sherlock who retreated just an inch back. “You think that I’m around because of some bloody Soulmate connection and I would be running off the first chance I get?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Of course not, you git!” John near yelled as he took another step towards where Sherlock was sitting. “I like going on crime scenes with you. I like the chasing, the takeaways, watching the stupid telly and everything that comes in between.” _I like being with you_ , John almost whispered the last bit. He hoped - _God, he hoped_ \- Sherlock didn't read it on his face.

But Sherlock did. His eyes went soft around the corners as John looked down in them. He spoke slowly, no louder that John’s own weary breaths. “Nobody has said that to me before.”

“I’m not nobody,” John said, becoming aware of the lessening space between them but he couldn't, and now he  _wouldn't_ , stop. The endless cycles of birth-and-death had exhausted them both as the unknown, unidentifiable and yet stronger than ever force brought them closer.

“You never were,” Sherlock whispered. His voice cracked as John’s palms slid up to his cheeks and cradled the base of his skull with impossible softness. Both men didn't realise this simple step could feel so much like home.

“Tell me you want this, Sherlock,” John whispered. Their position allowed him to gaze down in the detective’s eyes. He inched closer between Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his while so many unnamed emotions flashed in them. John could have stayed like this forever.

John waited for his answer as his fingers brushed Sherlock’s cheeks. He was afraid the overwhelming feeling inside him would break him down right there and the pieces would be too small, too sharp to put together ever again.

In a small whisper Sherlock said, “Bond with me.”

That was all it took.

John’s lips crushed to Sherlock’s as the pent up emotions filled them both. Sherlock’s arms encircled around his waist and pulled him to his chest. John tilted Sherlock’s head to get a better access to his mouth. He pulled him closer to his body, to his _being_ because it just wouldn't feel close enough. An erratic moan which sounded almost like sob broke from Sherlock’s throat. The spidery fingers sneaked around his waist, pulling him in. Taking the advantage of Sherlock’s open mouth, John slid his tongue inside the cupid shaped lips that had pronounced so many curses and vile accusations. Right now he couldn't find a better place for his tongue as it blended with Sherlock’s. The heat of his body, the scent which he had tried not to inhale too deeply, overwhelmed him. But Sherlock was there steadying him on his lap, stroking his jaw.

“Come to bed with me,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s thin fingers pulled John’s shirt out of the trouser. John couldn't keep from moaning as the cold fingers touched the bare skin of his stomach for the first time. The detective’s clever fingers started unbuttoning his shirt, taking their time about. When his shirt was entirely unbuttoned, John saw Sherlock’s head leaning in towards his chest before the soft lips kissed on his heart.

“Sherlock,” John moaned as Sherlock’s deft lips explored more of his skin. “Sherlock, bed. Please.”

Sherlock looked up at him from under the dark lashes. And with a last kiss right on John’s nipple, he said, “Yes. _Yes_.”

They were kissing again as soon as Sherlock got to his feet. It was unusual for John, to stretch his neck to kiss his partner. But it wasn't unpleasant. God, it was probably the most erotic thing he had ever done.

John made quick work of Sherlock’s shirt and threw it on the floor while he was pushed towards the general direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock’s lips never left his. John pushed him gently against the doorframe that separated the kitchen from the living room. An impatient whinge came from Sherlock and his eyes opened, indicating slight irritation for being interrupted. John didn't pay it much attention. He was rather busy absorbing bare-chested Sherlock before him.

“God, look at you,” John whispered, utterly mesmerised. His hands roamed around on Sherlock’s flat stomach and chest. His skin was coloured with a beautiful shade of pink. John curled his left hand around the detective’s neck, “Perfect.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck. “So beautifully perfect.”

Sherlock almost whimpered. John saw his eyes went wide, before he closed them shut as he crushed his mouth on John’s. The kiss that followed was fierce. John let Sherlock push him against the table and deepen the kiss.

Sherlock didn't wait when they separated for air. Taking John’s hand in his, he pulled him towards his bedroom.

 Once inside John pushed Sherlock gently against the door, clicking it shut before claiming his mouth again. _God_ , it felt as if every single moment in his life had led him to this. He kissed his Soulmate as their connection strengthened beyond the intensity John thought it was capable to achieve.

Sherlock slowly and firmly took them to the bed before he sat on it, pulling John between his knees, keeping him close.

“Are you sure, John?” The doctor slipped his hand to cradle Sherlock’s face and nodded.

_Yes, I’m sure. I want you, I need you. I want to be with you forever and nothing is going to come between us ever again because I’m John Watson and you’re Sherlock Holmes and I’m in love with you with every single fiber of my being._

John pushed Sherlock back on the bed until his curls were rested on the white fabric of pillow. Their lips only separated to come up for air but never left each other’s skin. Their remaining clothing was discarded while the russet skin explored the ivory skin.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock sobbed in John’s hair and his hand slid further down. He tentatively held his Soulmate's manhood in his fingers. Everything broken inside him felt as if it was mending. He felt frighteningly whole.

“I would wait all these lifetimes again for this, for you,” John whispered. Sherlock closed his eyes, pulling him impossibly closer. “Worth it.”

“Do you mean it?” Sherlock whispered in John’s hair. His hands clawed at his back. In that one question, John could feel all the rejection the detective had received all his life. John’s heart clenched painfully.

John bent down to kiss Sherlock’s skittish pulse beating in his neck, “Always.”

He kissed Sherlock’s neck again. Before he could move away, Sherlock stretched his neck on the other side, giving John more access. The doctor flicked his finger on the head of Sherlock’s cock, eliciting yet another moan from the man. John kissed the pale expanse of the detective’s neck with a little of teeth, enough to leave a mark.

“Now, John,” Sherlock begged. “Please. Now.”

“Yes, oh god yes.” Before Sherlock could direct him, John was opening the drawers, looking for the lube.

“Second drawer from the top. Right corner,” Sherlock said.

John found the lube precisely where Sherlock had said it would be. He squirted generous amount of it on his fingers as he moved to sit between Sherlock’ legs. The detective parted his legs further to give more access.

“You’re amazing,” John said, looking at Sherlock’s body spread below his. Sherlock closed his eyes. “So fucking amazing.”

John slowly inserted tip of his finger inside Sherlock. The man moaned and pushed down to sink in deeper until every inch of his index finger was inside. John swallowed around the haziness when Sherlock broke a sinful man. Sherlock made an impatient noise until John filled him with second finger.

“Now, John,” Sherlock groaned. “ _Now_.”

_Yes, oh God yes._

John couldn't speak. He didn't have to. Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around his neck, pulling him for kiss. He kissed with such softness that made John’s heart melt. They were doing this; _they were bonding_. John closed his eyes, letting the kiss engulf them, letting it wash any doubt he ever had in the past.

Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around John’s cock until it touched his hole. John whimpered. He opened his eyes to look down at his Soulmate. His eyes was dark as night. His hair was glued to his scalp and skin was flushed. John had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Everything slowed as John pushed in. Their connection swallowed them deeper and deeper, engulfing them entirely from rest of the world, righting every wrong; fixing every fault. It was something that reduced both men to nothingness, and yet, it meant everything. John wondered why he had denied himself of this. It was so right and perfect and extraordinary.

Every nerve in his body was tingling. His skin was sparking, as if it was fusing with Sherlock’s. He could hear his heart beating along with the other, louder than ever. It was too bright. John closed his eyes against the light. He could still see the brightness but Sherlock’s death grip on his back anchored John to him. Their Souls were connecting; finding their counterparts and uniting, filling the void of lifetimes spent apart.

The connection was becoming stronger than ever- almost like a physical entity joining them both never to separate again- as they came apart. Their hearts continued to beat in sync, reminding them of their bond that had just broken the cycle of life and death for them and united them for ever.

John wasn't sure how long they stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms as the connection was made. He didn't open his eyes. It was peaceful like this. The glow was fading into warmer, serene coulours. The connection didn't feel overpowering anymore. It felt calming.

John opened his eyes to look at his Soulmate. His eyes were still closed. John smiled down at him. He was bonded to Sherlock. And to feel his heart beating stronger than ever along with his, he knew this moment was everything he had ever wanted in not just this life but all the lives they had spent apart.

John softly kissed the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck as he listened to his slowly steadying heartbeat. The afterglow was fading more rapidly than John would have liked.

“Are you okay?” John asked, kissing Sherlock’s jaw again as he relaxed his head in the crook of his neck. When Sherlock didn't answer, he rested his chin on the back side of his palm splayed on his bonded Soulmate's heart. Sherlock’s eyes were tightly closed and crinkled as if in pain.

“Sherlock?” John asked, rising further up in alarm to look at him. The pleasure was entirely replaced by something dark he didn't want to feel. “Sherlock, talk to me,” he begged, cupping Sherlock’s face in his palms. A tiny tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

John winced at the sight, “Sherlock, look at me.” A sob now. “Look at me, god damn it!”

Two long arms encircled John, clutching desperately at the skin. John dipped his head to the bony crook of Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing him in. Sherlock’s sobs reduced to heavy breathing, but the man’s eyes were still closed.

“Hey,” John urged. “Was it not good for you?”

An irritated sigh came as a reply. The arms around him unfolded to shield his closed eyes from John, taking the warmth along with them.

John felt worse than he felt a moment before. He wasn't sure where the feeling was initiated. “Do you… Do you, uh, regret it?” Even as John brought himself to say the words as neutrally as he could, he couldn't keep the ache away.

Sherlock’s shoulder tensed. No, that wasn't a good sign. John wanted to shake him to sense, to make him say something, _anything_. But Sherlock’s cold feature didn't change. When Sherlock’s eyes opened, there was an edge to them.

“What happens to Mary now?”

John tensed involuntarily. No, he didn't think it as a mistake; _it_ _wasn't_ , but they had kept Mary in the dark. Even if it had happened suddenly, it wasn't right. It wasn't something he would do. It was something his father would have done it.

“Leave, John,” Sherlock said in a pained voice. John cringed.

 “Do you… do you really want me to?” John asked. It hurt to say it. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the ceiling. John knew his Soulmate was just trying to avoid looking at him. John slid down to the bed from Sherlock’s chest and sat looking down at him, begging the man to spare him a look. “Sherlock, talk to me. We can fix this.”

Sherlock huffed a humourless laugh. “There’s nothing to fix. Go to Mary. This was a mistake.”

Anger spiked through John’s heart. He couldn't listen to the coldness in Sherlock’s voice. He didn't know which feelings were his and which Sherlock’s anymore, nor did he care. Looking at Sherlock’s distant face, he wondered if Sherlock was feeling anything at all.

“You think bonding was a mistake?” John’s voice rose. “Just to get me in bed so you can escape the stupid birth-death cycle, was it? Well done. Got whatever you wanted in the end. As always.” Sherlock didn't speak nor did he look at him. John ran fingers through his hair. He couldn't take it anymore. “Fine. I’ll go.”

He got out of the bed, trying with all his power not to look at his Soulmate. He put on his pants and jeans as fast as he could with trembling hands, throbbing leg and watery vision. His jumper was somewhere in the hall. He turned the door knob but his treacherous feet faltered before exiting.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John’s voice wavered. Standing near the door, he almost looked sideways at his Soulmate for the last time. But he didn't.

John left without a glance back, oblivious to Sherlock’s heart wrenching weeping silenced by the pillow.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered from his place beside Mary. He wondered if he should take her slightly shaking hands in his but he didn't, no longer knowing if he was allowed to. She wasn't looking at him. She wasn't even crying. John had anticipated crying. He had prepared for it, but it never came. It felt as if she was expecting it to happen all along.

“You won’t change your mind?” She whispered.

John swallowed but shook his head. With a little bob to her head, John knew she understood. She didn't ask anything more.

“You are nothing like your father,” she whispered. John didn't look at her. Her fingers closed around the engagement ring he had given her one long month ago. He watched as they removed it. Without saying a word, she took his hand in hers and gently lowered the ring on it. Her digits pressed against his, enclosing the ring in his palm as his fingers encased it away from sight. John couldn't speak. His throat tightened.

He didn't look up until she had walked to the door and turned to say, “Goodbye, John,” before closing the door to their apartment after her with a final, firm jerk.

* * *

 

 

John rested his palm on his heart as he sat with his forehead resting against the cold window of the cab. The night outside was bustling with energy. John was feeling exactly opposite. He felt sick to his stomach. He wasn't sure if it was due to the nervousness or one of many side effects of being bonded. He was nervous, sure, but he knew the man at the other end of their connection was in misery.

The realisation didn't hit him hard and fast. It happened when he was straying in Hyde Park. After Mary had left, John sat alone in his apartment trying to make sense of things. He kept feeling worse than the moment past and the strengthened Soulmate connection didn't make things easier. There came a point when he couldn't take the silence anymore.

He had circled Hyde Park two times when his leg started throbbing. He found an isolated spot by the bushes and sat down. He determinedly avoided thinking about anything related to a certain consulting detective, though his heart made it difficult; each throb reminding him of his fingers tangled in black curls and his hands on the naked, ivory skin and a deep voice telling him that he wasn't a nobody.

He cleared his throat and blinked until the moisture in his eyes faded away. He closed his eyes and tried to block out all the images. Sherlock didn't want this. John couldn't make him feel what he felt for him. John couldn't believe he had ended up being one of those guys who sat in a park pining for the love they could never get. A humourless laugh escaped him.

The doctor wondered if he should have put up a fight for it. He wondered if thrashing things about would have worked. It wouldn't work in usual break ups but nothing with Sherlock was ‘usual’. At least, breaking something would surely have given some sense of reality to it.

He hadn't fought for them, he could agree. He had left when Sherlock had asked him to and had simply left it at that. He hadn’t got the answer when he had asked Sherlock how he felt. He wanted to fix this; John did. And now, as he closed his eyes and thought about how the rib-cracking hug had felt and seeing the tears escape tightly shut eyes, he knew Sherlock wanted it too.

That was how he ended up taking a cab to Baker Street. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. He wasn't completely certain he was wanted there anymore, but he knew it wasn't just his heart suffering.

The car pulled in front of 221B. John could feel his heart drumming faster as he glanced up to the window. He didn't see the tenuous figure of Sherlock Holmes looking down at him as he had hoped. Still, just being in front of 221B made him a bit more hopeful. He knocked on the door as excitement started peaking up, masking the gloomy feeling originating from the other part of his Soul for the time. John wondered what Sherlock would think of the sudden fervour. _Is he feeling hopeful, too?_

“Oh, hello dear-” John didn't wait to exchange Mrs. Hudson’s pleasantries and bound up the stairs.

“Sherlock?” he called out as he took the stairs by twos. The door to the living room was half closed, allowing light from the fire place to filter onto the stairs. He pushed the door open in haste to come face to face with a man he didn't expect to see.

“Mycroft?” John asked, panting. He didn't wait until Mycroft replied, marching straight to the kitchen to find it empty. He started towards Sherlock’s bedroom without hesitation. The hallway reminded him of their shed clothes and joining Souls.

“He’s not here, Doctor,” Mycroft spoke. John’s steps faltered as he turned around.

“What do you mean he’s not here? Where’s he?” John asked as he reentered the living room. His eyes never ceased looking for the gangly figure of the detective.

“Switzerland.” At that, John’s eyes halted on the elder Holmes for the first time. Mycroft Holmes was dressed in an immaculate evening suit. He was standing by the fireplace. His fingers deftly held an umbrella as he posed his weight on it. Looking at the stone cold demeanor of him, John had to admit the resemblance between the two brothers ran more deeply than intelligence.

“But he was supposed to go tomorrow.”

“He wanted me to arrange a special jet today. It was a sudden decision. I wondered what triggered it,” Mycroft said with a tilt to his head. When John ^T answer, he said, “I admit I’m surprised to see you here.”

John closed his eyes against the overpowering sense of loss. Sherlock was gone. He had lost him yet again.

“Call him back.”

“I don’t think that is in best interests, Doctor,” Mycroft said.

John opened his eyes. “Call him back, Mycroft.”

John saw Mycroft cringing at the words, but John didn't look away. He was going to fix this. He owed it to Sherlock. He owed it to _himself_.

“Sherlock has been admitted in the facility, Doctor Watson. Any external contact is prohibited-”

“But you can bring him back. Sherlock’s told me all about you.”

Mycroft didn't talk but kept his eyes firmly on the man. John didn't turn away. He let the elder Holmes see through him. If he was as precise as Sherlock, he would see his solemnity.

When Mycroft spoke his voice was firm and authoritative. “I have experienced much hardship to get him into this facility, Doctor Watson. Whatever you are seeking out of the relationship between you two is not going to happen as you’d like it to. I’m not going to take chance for him to give in to his addiction yet again.”

“No, you don’t understand-”

“What I understand, Doctor Watson, is that Sherlock is not a man of many sentiments. I cannot allow you to make connection with my brother and then leave him for a wife and kids. _You chose that over him_. He was lucky to have found you but he might not be able to recover from the loss. I will not let that happen.”

“He is not a child for you to take all his decisions for him, Mycroft.” John spoke through gritted teeth. He was hurting and, _god_ , it wasn't just his Soul.

“He is not, but I have already made the mistake of trusting him with his own life. I shall never repeat it.”

Silence settled around them. Mycroft’s cold, calculating eyes never wavered from John’s angry and defeated pair. John knew the man was right. He understood the logic. But he didn't want Sherlock to spend God-knows-how-long in some facility, thinking he had lost John forever. Sherlock’s tendency of self destruction didn't help either. He wanted the man to know he was needed; that he was loved.

“We’re bonded,” John said, trying his last offence. That seemed to take Mycroft by surprise. John continued, “Sherlock and I are bonded. I need him here, Mycroft. I am here to fix this.”

Mycroft looked at John skeptically. He didn't believe it. “Mycroft, you have to believe me. We’re bonded and I am willing to do everything I can to make this work. Sherlock thinks I don’t want this but I do. And I know he wants this as much,” John said, his palm resting on his steady heart.

Mycroft Holmes didn't speak for a long time. His eyes were gauging John’s every movement and John let him. Every passing second was adding a heavy weight on his heart and John wanted to end it all; the misery, the ache and the torture of their Souls.

Mycroft straightened his position. John could almost see his brain carefully picking out words. “Sherlock will come back when he is fully recovered. I cannot say how long it will take but I can assure you, Doctor Watson, that I will personally make sure he returns to you when he is ready. He needs this as much as he needs your companionship.” John’s eyes followed Mycroft as he walked to the stairs, processing what he had just heard.

“Take care, John,” Mycroft said. He hesitated by the door as he added, “I’m glad he found you.”

With that Mycroft Holmes was gone, leaving John in silence. His legs found the chair and his body dropped upon it. He buried his face in his hands. An uncontrollable sob escaped his lips. He hadn't lost Sherlock, not yet, but it didn't stop from feeling like he had lost great chunk of himself. He berated himself for not telling Sherlock how much he wanted him, how much he loved him. The man had spent most of his life being rejected and John had done just that. He hadn't fought for him. He hadn't made him see his feeling for Sherlock ran deeper than the Soulmate connection. And now, sitting alone in a once warm place, he was left with the uncertain feeling if he’d ever be allowed to reenter Sherlock’s life ever again.

It wasn't until well past midnight when John got up. His legs were shaky and joints paining from sitting in one position for far too long. His hands shook as he took out his phone and typed. The message remained undelivered, waiting for the recipient to turn on the network.

_Six months. Probably more_.

He would wait. He had waited countless lifetimes before. One more didn't matter.

* * *

 

_Eight months later_

To: Sherlock Holmes  
I would wait all these lifetimes again. For you. Always.  
-JW  
 _(Delivered)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally at the end!
> 
> Well, this isn't really an end. I'm working on the Sherlock's version of the story. It is nearly done and it'll be about 2k words long. I'm planning to post it by next weekend. Don't forget to subscribe to the story! I'm also thinking of writing what happens after Sherlock comes back but I'm not entirely sure if people would want to read it.
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta, [Thefacelesswriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/profile) for sticking with me. Thanks to you for leaving kudos, comments and messages on Facebook. I've gotten enormous support from you lovely people out there and without you all I probably would have stopped writing or posting.
> 
> If you want to say hi, here's my facebook page [Hamish. John Hamish Watson, in case you're looking for baby names](https://www.facebook.com/SassyBabyJohn?ref=hl). Let's all fangirl together! <3
> 
> And lastly, this is awkward, my cat sat on the laptop while I was posting. She might have typed something silly. If you find any mistakes do let me know. 
> 
> See you soon, lovelies! *awkward exit*


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